


of wills and fates

by delamorea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amoral Harry, Apathetic Harry Potter, Dark Harry, M/M, Manipulative Harry Potter, No Smut, Not Beta Read, Parallel between young Harry and Tom Riddle, mutual obsession, the Ron in this is more movie Ron than book Ron, very light bashing (really just a difference of perspective)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28157217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delamorea/pseuds/delamorea
Summary: Obsessions are peculiar in that they can run deep, growing stronger over months and years without any realisation from the ones who harbour them, yet all it takes for them to take form is a single moment.For Harry, that moment occurred when he first heard the name all shuddered to utter.-Harry becomes fixated on learning more about Voldemort upon entering the magical world. Everyone expects him to treat this dark wizard as the embodiment of pure evil, but for once in his life, Harry has the freedom not to do what he’s told.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 82
Kudos: 433





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The result of some brainstorming after reading too many Dark Harry fics! Apologies for any inconsistencies.

Obsessions are peculiar in that they can run deep, growing stronger over months and years without any realisation from the ones who harbour them, yet all it takes for them to take form is a single moment.

For Harry, that moment occurred when he first heard the half-giant, under his breath and with an uncharacteristic wariness to his voice, utter the dreaded word that had long transcended a simple name belonging to an individual, and had instead become a symbol, a shorthand for unfathomable horrors and unspoken truths.

 _Voldemort_.

Somehow, for Harry, the word never sounded menacing, or remotely sinister. There was something about it that called to him. He remembered repeating the name quietly to himself, almost entranced by how naturally each syllable rolled off his tongue. Then, of course, Hagrid’s panicked hush snapped him out of it, and Harry quickly apologised, offering him the most innocent smile.

Upon being told Harry didn’t know much about the magical world or the reason for his own fame, that boy Ron Weasley went on and on about how children everywhere had heard the story of him vanquishing the Dark Lord as a baby, and how incredible and surreal it was for them to meet the great legend in the flesh. Harry humoured him, listening with a mask of interest, until Weasley was done and he could finally ask what he really wanted to know.

‘You say he almost conquered the magical world,’ Harry leaned forward and whispered, eyes gleaming with eager curiosity, ‘How did he do that? And…why? He must have had a lot of people supporting him, if he was able to accomplish that much…Hagrid mentioned something about, um, Death Eaters? Was that what he called his followers?’

The redhead visibly paled at his words, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well, from what I heard, they always wore dark robes and terrifying masks. They were dark wizards—pure evil, just like all Slytherins, no wonder they were willing to serve You-Know-Who…’

Harry had to stop himself from frowning in annoyance. ‘Surely it can’t be as simple as that,’ he pressed, making an attempt to keep his tone neutral, ‘I mean, evil or not, they’re powerful wizards and witches, aren’t they? Powerful people are usually selfish. They must have followed Voldemort because they saw something in his cause, maybe something in what he promised?’

It soon became clear that he wasn’t getting any answers from Weasley. None that would satisfy him, anyway. To the redhead, Voldemort and his supporters were monsters from stories used to scare children—evil incarnate that needed no reason to torture, kill and wreak havoc upon the world. Besides, no matter how the boy tried to hide it behind smiles, his uneasiness bled through his demeanour. Harry’s intense interest in knowing everything about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named unsettled him.

It didn’t bother Harry all that much, really, except now he knew better to try the direct approach. No matter. Once they arrived at the school, he would be able to search for answers on his own. Surely somewhere in the library, the Dark Lord and his reign of terror were documented in great detail.

Weasley was right about one thing: Harry really _was_ famous among the children. At the sorting ceremony, a hush fell over the entire hall the moment his name was called out, and he could feel a thousand pairs of eyes following his every step, wondering which House will get to welcome the Boy Who Lived. Harry, however, was wondering something else. If Voldemort was once a student of Hogwarts, did it mean he once sat where Harry was sitting now, waiting for that ancient-looking hat to be placed on his head? Did he feel anxious? Excited? Confident? Or perhaps, nothing at all?

The Sorting Hat talked to him, giving him a start. Harry winced—he didn’t like its voice, or how much it seemed to understand everything about him. It must have been able to read his mind. ‘You could do great things in Slytherin,’ it said, echoing what Harry was told when he matched with his wand. How did Ollivander put it again? _Terrible, but great._

‘My wand has the same core as his, you know,’ Harry replied quietly in his mind, feeling himself smile, ‘Ollivander said he remembers every wand he’s ever sold. Are you the same way? Do you remember every mind you’ve ever read? Could you…tell me about his?’

It was a moment before the Hat answered. ‘Curious about your nemesis, are you, young boy? Hmm. Interesting—very interesting…I can’t tell you what you want to know, but I can tell you this: Both Gryffindor and Slytherin would suit you nicely. The choice is yours.’

It wasn’t much of a choice, really. When Weasley made a face and told Harry Slytherins were a bunch of stinking dark wizards, he had successfully piqued Harry’s interest in a way he certainly never intended. Voldemort attended Hogwarts at some point in his life, and Harry might just have a fair guess on which House he was sorted into. Apart from that, after his fruitless and honestly disappointing conversation with Weasley—who, from what he knew, was from a family of Gryffindors—a change of scenery sounded incredibly compelling.

A moment of stunned silence descended upon the room as he made his way to the Slytherin table, before anyone remembered to clap. Harry would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it at least a little.

///

The question of _why_ constantly crossed his mind.

Why was he drawn to the mystery of a man was a supposed monster, who murdered, terrorised, and destroyed his chance at a normal childhood? He should hate him with passion and despise the very sound of his name. He knew he should.

Maybe something was wrong with him, he often thought. Because the thought of his parents dying at the hand of that man never triggered the emotions it clearly should. Where righteous anger and inconsolable grief should be, all he could find was an emptiness. He never knew his parents. What would his life look like if they didn’t lose their lives on that day? He couldn’t answer that question. After all, he didn’t know. All he knew was the neglect and cruelty of the Dursleys, and that, he refused to blame on Voldemort. Voldemort didn’t order his aunt and uncle to treat him with the disdain and heartlessness that they did. Voldemort didn’t shove him into a cupboard like a discarded old shirt whenever the sight of him became annoying. Voldemort didn’t threaten him with violence when he made the smallest mistake due to the exhaustion of running errands and doing chores all day long. No, he refused to blame him.

And excluding his parents’ murder, what reasons did he really have to resent this Dark Lord? Because he was, as Ron Weasley so eloquently put it, ‘pure evil’? Harry didn’t know why he wanted to take control of the magical world, and passing judgement on something without even understanding it was something the Dursleys would do—and did, when it came to Harry’s magic. It was frankly insulting that Weasley seemed to expect Harry to do the same.

If he had to give an answer right now, _no_ , Harry didn’t resent Lord Voldemort. If anything, he was intrigued by how much this dark wizard was able to accomplish. He was a symbol of absolute power, to the extent where people feared to even speak his name. _Power_. It was something that fascinated Harry. Growing up, he had often wished he had more power than he really did, that he could stand up to people who were callous and mean, and make them admit they were wrong. If he had enough power, he could teach them to be nice. He could _make_ them nice. He knew what some people would say—forcing people to do things against their will was wrong no matter what, and all that. But how did that make sense? It would only do them good in the long run, wouldn’t it? If Harry were to scare Dudley so much that he never dared to hurt someone else again, he may even stand a chance at becoming an acceptable, if not good or decent, person. It was like how sick people had to take medicine before they could get better, even if they didn’t want to.

Harry often wondered if Voldemort would agree with him on that. Somehow, he had a feeling he would.

///

Harry didn’t regret being sorted into Slytherin. In this house, people never came flocking to him because of his fame, and he had to actually make an effort to make friends. He liked that. None of them looked at his scar with the same wide-eyed wonder that Ron Weasley did; instead, there was often a subtle tension in the air when they were around Harry, as if they were expecting him to do something but he never did.

Draco Malfoy was among Harry’s more straightforward housemates. On the very first day that they met, he offered Harry his friendship with an uplifted chin, and Harry, although somewhat amused by his flair for the dramatic, accepted. He heard whispers from some Gryffindor first-years that Draco’s father followed You-Know-Who in the war, which could only be an added bonus.

It was shame that, as Harry soon discovered after a few conversations, Draco didn’t seem to know that much more about Voldemort than Weasley did. But now that Harry was a student of the school, there was an entire library available for him anyway. Well, almost an entire library. Harry was sure he could find some interesting things in the restricted section, but when he brought it up in a conversation with Professor McGonagall, he was given a stern look and told it was restricted for a reason, and that he shouldn’t concern himself with it as a first-year. So no permission slips from her, Harry thought, mentally shrugging. He didn’t like being treated like a child, even though he technically was one. Being protected from certain knowledge ‘for his own good’ was just another way of saying someone else had decided for him what he should and should not know.

If Professor McGonagall wouldn’t consider giving him permission, maybe someone else would. It was with that hope in mind that Harry closely observed every professor in class, and eventually decided he should try his chances with Professor Quirrell. Many students thought little of their Defense teacher because of his nerves and constant stuttering, especially the Slytherins, who made fun of him ruthlessly, but Harry thought the man possessed a certain peculiar charm. He couldn’t really say why.

When Harry approached him after class one day, Quirrell seemed surprised.

‘What…what can I do for you, Potter?’ He asked, looking his usual nervous self, except there was genuine curiosity in his eyes. Harry was glad—hopefully this meant the professor was willing to hear him out.

‘I was wondering, sir, if you could write me a permission slip for the restricted section of the library. I grew up in a muggle family, so I want to learn as much as I can about magical world’s history…There’s just one book that I need in there, and I would really appreciate it if you agree.’

That was clearly not the answer Quirrell expected. He was quiet for a moment, eyeing Harry with a look he couldn’t quite discern. ‘It sounds…sounds like fundamental reading materials should be enough for your research, Mr. Potter, why—why would you need a book in the restricted section?’

Harry thanked himself for having the foresight to prepare an explanation beforehand. ‘Well, you see, sir…’ he began, putting on a look of respectful eagerness, ‘I’m doing research into magic history, and there’s a particular branch of magic that I would really love to learn more about, but none of the books I could find describe its history and development in detail, and I don’t think it’s on the curriculum.’

‘You—you should consult Professor Binns about this, Potter. I’m sure he would be more than ha—happy to help you out,’ Quirrell said, as he sorted through textbooks and notebooks that smelled of garlic just as strongly as his person, and placed them in his bag. He was no longer looking at Harry.

Despite the collected exterior Harry was determined to maintain, he had the absurd urge to pout in that moment. For no particular reason that he could identify, he really thought it was going to work with Professor Quirrell, that if _anyone_ was going to agree to his request, it would be him.

‘Sir,’ he protested, and couldn’t help but let frustration seep into his voice, ‘With all due respect, I find it a little ridiculous that the school doesn’t trust us to make decisions for ourselves about what we do and do not read. Besides, I only want information from a certain section of the book—is it really impossible to be allowed access, even if it’s with a professor overseeing my research?’

That did make Quirrell look up again. He looked at Harry, and Harry could swear for the briefest moment, that fidgety, nervous look disappeared from his eyes.

‘You are very ma—mature for your age, Potter,’ he said at last. ‘Allowing a first-year access to the re—restricted section is technically against school—school rules, but if you are that interested in your research, per—perhaps we could work out an arrangement. If you don’t mind me as—asking, Potter, what is it you’re specifically looking for?’

All that was required was one final lie. But Merlin knows why, when Harry looked the professor in the eye, the carefully prepared answer was caught in his throat. He opened his mouth, and found himself unable to say it—no, _unwilling_ to. He didn’t want to lie to him, which was as preposterous as it sounded. _You would get in big trouble if you tell the truth, you know that._

Maybe he was simply possessed in that moment. He must have been, because after a long pause, he heard himself say, ‘The detailed history of the development of Dark Magic, sir. I hear…’

 _Stop. You have to stop. What are you doing, admitting that straight to a professor’s face? They’ll punish you. You’ll be_ expelled _._

And yet a part of him knew he wouldn’t. An inexplicable calm settled over him, a sense of absolute certainty and security.

‘I read that the Dark Lord was a master of the Dark Arts, that his magical power was extraordinary. I’ve heard people say the Dark Arts is dangerous or evil, but I find it concerning but we are not actually taught much about it besides the most basic information. Instead of simply taking their opinions as the truth, I’d much rather learn about it and decide for myself. Because frankly, sir, I’m tired of having to blindly accept what I’m told.’

He should really be panicking right about now. He had no idea what it usually took for Hogwarts to expel a student, but there was no conceivable way he could say what he just did and walk away from this without getting more than a reprimand.

And yet, he blinked and wondered to himself, somehow, he simply wasn’t worried. Professor Quirrell was looking at him most strangely, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say the man almost looked _impressed_.

‘Tha—that is a commendable mindset for a stu—student to have, Potter,’ he said, his lips quirking in some semblance of a smile. ‘I could agree to oversee your—your research project. Instead of writing you a slip, I think it is best—best that I simply bring you the boo—book that you need, and we will work out a schedule to—together.’

 _Did I hear that right?_ Harry thought blankly. He’d like to think he was good at reading people, after eleven years of tiptoeing around two adults who were impatient, demanding and quick with their tempers, but when he studied the professor’s expression, all he could find was mild amusement, and something else he couldn’t quite decipher. No concern. No disapproval.

‘I…I can’t thank you enough, Professor,’ he said, still somewhat in disbelief. ‘And, um, about this research project—’

‘No need to worry, Potter,’ the man gave him a knowing nod, ‘Everything that was said will stay between us.’

It wasn’t until Harry left the room that he realised how odd it was that the professor’s stutter disappeared at the end.

///

‘It doesn’t make sense, does it?’

‘Of course it doesn’t, Merlin,’ Draco said feelingly, ‘How was that allowed to happen? You’re the famous Harry Potter, and they leave you with some muggle relatives of yours who don’t even tell you about Hogwarts?’

Harry chuckled at his scowl. Despite the seriousness of the conversation, he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a little amusing how his friend always got worked up over the mere mention of the topic. ‘I’ve been reading everything I could find, and apparently… “After the death of his parents, The Boy Who Lived was taken into the care of Albus Dumbledore, who would ensure his safety and wellbeing as the magical world continued to deal with the repercussions of the war.” Nothing further is said about it.’

‘Dumbledore?’ Draco wrinkled his nose, ‘But you weren’t raised by him, were you? What does that mean?’

‘I think it means it might have been his decision to leave me with the Dursleys. All the books leave it vague because nobody knows where I actually ended up, only that I’m under Dumbledore’s protection.’ Harry smiled wryly. ‘Not a bad way to keep the Dark Lord’s remaining supporters from taking revenge. All it takes is for me to be treated like garbage for eleven years.’

At that, Draco looked genuinely outraged and repulsed. ‘You should tell someone!’ He exclaimed, ‘I could tell father…Dumbledore shouldn’t be allowed to control your life like that!’

‘I appreciate it, Draco, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘But you can’t do _nothing_! What if he wants you to go back to those muggles for the summer?’

Harry took a moment to think. As undesirable as it was, he had no other home to return to. His parents’ old house was all but destroyed, and it wasn’t as if he could rent a place all on his own at the age of eleven. ‘I’ll talk to Professor Dumbledore,’ he decided, ‘See what he has to say.’

 _Does Dumbledore know_ , was the question that never left his mind. Did he really believe it was in Harry’s best interest to be left with his mother’s sister, supposedly the only family he had left, or did he know all too well the kind of people the Dursleys were, and how Harry would be treated? Harry had to know for sure. He _needed_ to know. Already, he could feel the anger simmering under his skin.

All these years, he couldn’t count the times he’d felt utterly small and powerless, when it didn’t have to be that way. Everything he’d encountered so far in the magical world had told him one thing: Harry Potter was anything but powerless. He could do magic. He was regarded as a hero, a saviour, even, by people who he’d never even met. Who were the Dursleys to order him around, treat him like he was nothing? They were mean-spirited, narrow-minded, and didn’t understand the first thing about who Harry was or what he could do.

 _I could trample them under my feet if I wanted to_ , Harry said to himself through clenched teeth, and was surprised by how satisfying it felt to picture it with pure vindictiveness.

He didn’t even feel bad about it.

///

When Dumbledore responded to everything he said with that same gentle, benevolent smile, Harry had to stop himself from looking irritated. People who smiled too much could rarely be trusted. Aunt Petunia was good at putting on the friendliest smile when she needed to, but reverted to her spiteful normal self the moment the target of her flattery was out of sight.

The conversation in the Headmaster’s office started with some casual small talk. Harry was asked how he found the school so far, and whether there was anything he needed help with. Harry looked down at his tea, which was sweet enough to be undrinkable.

‘Was it you who took me to my aunt and uncle the night my parents were killed, Professor?’ he finally asked, not caring whether it sounded abrupt.

The headmaster regarded him with kind eyes behind those spectacles, but Harry didn’t want to look him directly in the eye. Somehow, he had the uneasy feeling that he was being analysed.

Was he being too blunt?

‘Sorry, I just…It’s a lot to suddenly find out I’m a wizard and apparently famous,’ he added, and carefully softened his tone. ‘All this time, I thought my parents died in a car crash. I’ve been searching for everything I could find about my family…’

‘Of course, my boy, I understand. Never doubt yourself for wanting to seek out answers. Dear Rubeus was the one who escorted you to their doorstep, and Minerva and I were there to make sure you arrived safely. A note was left by me, explaining you would be entrusted to their care.’

‘Did you also tell them not to tell me I was a wizard, or let me know anything related to this world at all?’

He thought he sounded calm enough, reasonable enough, but maybe not as much as he thought, if the subtle look of concern in Dumbledore’s eyes was any indication. It didn’t matter. He had come to far to start backtracking now.

‘My aunt and uncle are not nice people, Professor. They’re mean and cruel, and not just to me. I would appreciate it if I could be allowed to stay somewhere else…anywhere else, for the summer.’

Dumbledore put down his teacup, and it touched the saucer with a brief clatter. There was a moment of silence. Harry finally looked up, expecting to find a look of guilt on the headmaster’s face. Instead, Dumbledore appeared as tranquil as he ever was, except there was now a new glint behind his eyes.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Harry,’ he said, and he did sound it. ‘I wish there are more options available to us—but at the moment, your aunt and uncle’s house is the safest place for you to be outside Hogwarts.’

‘How would they keep me safe?’ Harry shook his head, and almost laughed at the mental image of the Dursleys facing off against dark wizards. He wouldn’t mind if Voldemort’s followers made short work of them, he thought darkly. At least that way, Harry didn’t have to worry about living with them ever again. ‘They hate magic. They hate everything about it.’

‘Well, Harry…Though your aunt and uncle aren’t aware of this, there is magic shielding their house that exists specifically for your protection. It has held strong for eleven years, and it will continue to protect you, as long as you are inside that house.’

So that was why. Harry dropped his eyes, and felt something inside him turn bitterly cold. It was an undeniably reasonable explanation, but it also revealed to him that yes, Dumbledore did know. He knew exactly what the Dursleys were like, and still decided Harry should grow up in their house, because he thought the benefit outweighed the cost.

‘I can understand that, sir, but are all these precautions really still necessary? The Dark Lord is dead, isn’t he?’

It might very well have been Harry’s imagination, but the headmaster seemed slightly disturbed by his response. ‘He may be, but you must know, my boy, that he rallied a great number of wizards and witches to his cause. Many of them could still mean you harm, even in the absence of their leader.’

Harry swallowed, feeling the stir of his curiosity. Hagrid said Voldemort attended the school many years ago, and based on everything Harry had read, it was likely that Dumbledore had not only known him, but interacted closely with him on multiple occasions. He shouldn’t ask—he really shouldn’t. But the conversation had taken them here, and the opportunity was simply too good to pass up on.

‘You knew Lord Voldemort when he was a student here, sir, didn’t you? Could you tell me…what he was like?’

If Dumbledore was taken aback by the question, he didn’t show it. He simply offered Harry sweets again after a pause, as a levitated teapot refilled both their cups, even though Harry barely touched his. Harry respectfully declined.

‘He was a student of great talent. Every professor that taught him could attest to that…On top of that, he was studious and hardworking, which, as you may be able to imagine, quickly made him one of the school’s exemplary students. But he was not all that he appeared to be.’

Harry held his breath as he listened, hanging on to every word. Suddenly, he could see a young boy not much older than himself, passing through the same halls he walked to get to class every day, dining on the same bench he sat at the Slytherin table, sitting in the very classrooms he was becoming accustomed to, and occasionally offering answers so exceptional that the most stoic professor beamed with approval.

‘He never had friends. There were people who knew him well, and people whom he trusted with certain tasks…He kept them close because he saw them as useful, not because he cared for any of them on a personal level. And many followed him, despite being aware of this. He was incredibly charismatic, so much so that people surrendered their freedom and identity to his superficial charm. That was his greatest strength and his greatest weakness, Harry. In all his years at Hogwarts, he was ultimately alone.’

The headmaster’s gentle tone carried the hint of a warning, one that Harry was no doubt supposed to take note of—it was like when adults read children those cautionary tales. But in his amazement, all he could think of was _what more did he know_?

‘What was his name?’ he asked, filled to the brim with an eager reverence. He was someone before he was Lord Voldemort—Harry was always aware of this, of course, but it was not until now that the significance of this fact became singularly clear. Even if he was a prodigy, he wasn’t always the all-powerful dark wizard all shuddered to think of. He remade himself, like a serpent shedding its skin. The founder of Slytherin would have been so proud.

And that was the first time he heard it. The name that resonated somewhere deep within his soul.

Against his better judgement, he didn’t bother to suppress a smile forming on his lips.

///

Harry had a long dream. It was ambiguous and ridiculous, like all dreams were. For some reason, Professor Quirrell made an appearance. He spoke to Harry, telling him he was on his path to greatness, except his lips never moved and his voice sounded both familiar and foreign. Then everything became a blur, and there were suddenly flames all around him, rising to dispel the darkness. A flashing green light. His mother’s scream. Harry woke with cold sweat on his forehead, and his scar hurting like it was about to bleed.

Something about the fire lingered on his mind. He remembered its blinding brightness, the intensity of its heat. It was a terrible, beautiful thing, promising to devour anyone who stepped close. And yet Harry was drawn to it.

Maybe he should be scared.

He wasn’t.

///

Snape was a strange man. Harry liked him just fine, even though the man constantly singled him out for questions in his class. It was a good thing Harry took his studies extremely seriously, and his reading expanded far beyond just their textbooks. Slytherins did have a reputation to uphold, after all—Tom Riddle certainly set the bar high for all of them. The Sorting Hat said Harry was a perfect fit for his house, and Harry wanted to prove it wasn’t wrong.

As much as it was amusing to watch the corner of Snape’s mouth twitch ever so slightly when Harry gave an impeccable answer to his question, Harry made sure he always behaved respectfully, for he did respect the man. The delivery of his lectures was always clear and concise, and though he demanded a lot of hard work and dedication from his students, his standards were never truly impossible to meet. Harry sometimes caught himself thinking whether Riddle would have appreciated Snape as a teacher.

Overall, Harry enjoyed Potions. It certainly didn’t hurt that he had Draco as his partner. The boy had a talent in the subject, and it definitely showed. Harry felt no shame in asking him for help whenever he felt unsure.

It took a while before it came up in their conversations, but Harry soon learned Snape favoured Draco in class for more than his exceptional performance. He was Draco’s godfather.

‘You must have learned a lot from him,’ Harry said wistfully, thinking about all the magical education he missed out on while being stuck with the Dursleys. ‘Hagrid said he had an impressive knowledge of the Dark Arts. Well, not in those words, but…’

There was a time when topics like this made Draco all tense and wary, as he was initially incredulous that the Harry Potter would take an interest in anything associated with the word ‘Dark’, but the two of them had thankfully gone past that stage.

‘Yeah, that’s what makes him the best teacher at Hogwarts. Not that he’s allowed to publicly teach any of it, of course…’ Draco said, a note of characteristic petulance in his voice.

Harry smiled. ‘He’s also quite close with your dad, isn’t he?’

‘You could say that.’

‘Did he also follow the Dark Lord in the war, then?’

Draco fixed him with a blank stare, and Harry stared back, insistent on being given an answer. Draco Malfoy was the only person in school who knew, at least to an extent, Harry’s obsession with knowing everything about his supposed nemesis, but Harry was well aware the boy still wasn’t quite used to it.

‘You’re really weird sometimes, Harry, you know that?’ he furrowed his eyebrows and commented, as Harry gave an innocent shrug. ‘Let’s just say my godfather could see merit in…some of his ideals.’

‘I could too,’ Harry said airily, ‘I mean, from what I was able to gather, some of what he believed did make sense. To be honest, I always find it a miracle that the magical world has remained a secret to muggles for this long. I know there are handy spells like the Oblivious Charm, but why should we tiptoe around them, when we are clearly more powerful?’

Draco hummed in agreement. ‘Well, never would have expected to hear this from Harry Potter, of all people,’ he said with a raised eyebrow, ‘but I’m getting used to your surprises at this point.’

///

Maybe Professor Quirrell just didn’t do well with crowds. In his private tutoring sessions with Harry, he was always much more coherent and collected than his usual self; at times, Harry would even say the man was eloquent. If the other students saw this side of him, Harry had no doubt their jaws would have dropped to the floor.

The more time he spent with the professor, the more he could understand what Dumbledore saw in him as a teacher. Once Harry got used to his quirks and funny smell, their sessions went more smoothly than Harry could have ever imagined. Harry was learning fast—a combination of his own interest in the subject and Quirrell’s on-point explanations and guidance. Sometimes, it was as if the professor knew what Harry was confused about before he could ask the question.

From time to time, their conversations strayed away from their objective. They would talk about all sorts of things, and Harry would enjoy it just the same. He found a teacher around whom he felt safe to drop the quiet, studious facade, and simply be himself. He knew he wouldn’t be judged for whatever he said.

Occasionally, Harry’s scar would start hurting and stop him from being able to concentrate. There was no rhyme or reason to when it would happen; every time it did, all Harry could do was put a hand to his forehead and hiss an apology through the burning pain. Quirrell was always patient and understanding about it.

‘I wonder sometimes if it’s trying to tell me something,’ Harry confessed to him one time. ‘It has to mean something, right? I mean, if I have to take a wild guess…I personally don’t believe the Dark Lord is dead. Everything I’ve heard about him confirms he was a magical genius, and had all but mastered the Dark Arts. He was on his way to conquer the magical world—it seems impossible that he would have just died like that, from a backfired spell. I get that there’s no way to block a Killing Curse, but if anyone can find a way to shield against it, it would be him, wouldn’t it? I know if I were him, I would have precautions prepared just for that sort of thing.’

Quirrell looked at him, his expression inscrutable. ‘You don’t know what you’re say—saying, Potter. As…As any professor would tell you, magic dealing with death is the dark—darkest kind. All sorts of things from muggles' horror stories…Mutilation, deformities, unthinkable rituals…Human sacrifice, even…’

‘Good thing I’m not the squeamish type,’ Harry said, half-joking, but also half-serious. ‘I don’t know…Is it really all that horrible? Clearly Lord Voldemort wanted to change the world. Putting aside whether his ideals were right or wrong, making any kind of real difference in the world takes time. People say death is just a natural part of life, as if wanting to defy it is something horrible, but if someone had the ability to do so, why shouldn’t they? Some people’s minds are worth preserving at any cost. I bet if it was Dumbledore instead of Lord Voldemort who somehow extended his life, people would only be overjoyed. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective.’

That was undoubtedly the boldest he’d ever been since he set foot in Hogwarts, but he didn’t sweat or even worry. Instead, he levelled his gaze on the professor, calm and perfectly at ease.

Quirrell was smiling—the same smile he gave Harry the first time they really talked. It was a smile that didn’t fit his pale, twitchy features in any way, almost as if a mirage settled over his face, letting the image of another face bleed through.

‘There are professors who would be…most horrified by those remarks, Potter.’

Harry blinked, and grinned a little.

‘Yes, but you’re not one of them, are you, sir?’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The sequence of events is arranged a bit differently from the book.)

Minerva McGonagall was never one to be easily unnerved. She had taught at Hogwarts long enough to see students of all shapes and sizes, and could deal with the most mischievous or rebellious of them with unflappable ease.

…Which made it all the more concerning, when she found herself in a situation she didn’t know what to make of.

For all intents and purposes, Harry James Potter was a delightful student; McGonagall wasn’t going to lie to herself and say she didn’t have a soft spot for him. Despite the striking likeness between him and his father in appearance, the boy certainly took after Lily more than he did James. It was a bit of a shock to her and, she was sure, Albus, when he was sorted into Slytherin, but the boy seemed to get along with his housemates well enough, despite it being the only house where his celebrity status might find a more complicated reception than warmth and welcome.

Potter’s charmwork in her class was outstanding, and she could tell he put in a lot of hard work to perform on the level he consistently did. His mother’s son, indeed. McGonagall may not be the Head of his House, but that didn’t stop her from looking out for the boy within her capabilities. And it was when she looked closely that she began to notice the troubling signs.

Despite maintaining a cordial relationship with many of his housemates, Potter was fundamentally antisocial. McGonagall could identify exactly one student who seemed to be Potter’s friend—Lucius’ boy. Potter showed little interest in participating in feasts and festivities, and kept to himself even more than Miss Granger, who was among the very few students that matched him in diligence. Besides devoting time to reading and studying, McGonagall couldn’t tell what Potter was interested in. What she could tell, disconcertingly, was there was a certain gleam in his eyes whenever she mentioned anything relating to Dark spells and forbidden magic in her lectures. He approached her one day, asking if he could be permitted to borrow a book from the Restricted Section, and McGonagall would have found the absurdity of it humorous if he didn’t look so expectant and serious. The boy was a first year, and had only learned of magic’s existence a few months ago! What in Merlin’s name was he hoping to find in the Restricted Section?

There were other things, too. One time in her class, Ms. Granger made a small, understandable mistake when answering a question, and Malfoy made a most distasteful joke, and called her by a horrible name. The girl was already harsh on herself for getting something wrong in front of her classmates, and was almost reduced to tears after hearing what he said. McGonagall never forgot the look she saw on Potter’s face when the girl sat down, her shoulders still trembling. There was not the slightest trace of sympathy in those eyes—if anything, she saw an aloof amusement, and some measure of disdain, as if he found the girl’s reaction pathetic.

After that single instance, he continued to behave most pleasantly, and McGonagall couldn’t help but question whether she simply saw it wrong. Try as she might, she could not conceive how this bright, quiet, well-mannered boy would respond so callously to seeing his classmate bullied and hurt.

If only she could convince herself that was true. The fact was, she wasn’t the only one concerned about Potter. She learned from Albus that the boy recently expressed a strong interest in learning about You-Know-Who’s past, going so far as to inquire what he was originally named. Unnervingly, he referred to him as ‘the Dark Lord’ out of habit—likely influenced by Malfoy and some of his other peers, and unaware of its connotations. It gave her no peace of mind to think how he may have been affected by them in other ways.

When Madam Pomfrey informed her a student of her house was found injured and unconscious in the trophy room, showing signs of suffering from a dangerous hex, McGonagall felt fury and a cold sense of dread in equal measure. It was Ron Weasley, and Neville Longbottom was the one who found him—he was panicked and in tears when he carried Weasley to the Hospital Wing, and it took Madam Pomfrey several minutes to make sense of his incoherent explanation. Apparently, Weasley got into a nasty argument with Malfoy, which ended in the two agreeing to meet each other in the trophy room yesterday night for a duel—just the two of them, without seconds. Longbottom overheard the whole thing and tried desperately to talk Weasley out of it; he thought he had succeeded, until he noticed Weasley was nowhere to be found the next morning.

‘It must have been Malfoy,’ he choked out in a quivering voice, eyes filled with terror, ‘Ron was hexed and left there all night! He was pale as a ghost when I found him, and for a moment, I thought—I thought he wasn’t even breathing…’

But Malfoy claimed he never left his dorm that night, that he never intended to go to the duel in the first place. He was just messing with Weasley, hoping he would get in trouble for sneaking out past curfew. ‘I would have tipped off Filch to make sure he got caught too,’ he said, ‘but Harry said he wasn’t worth the trouble, so I just decided to just leave it. I wasn’t anywhere near the trophy room that night.’

As much as McGonagall was incredulous, she found nothing to back up her suspicion. None of the portraits remembered seeing anyone but Weasley sneak out that night, and Malfoy’s wand showed no record of having cast a Dark spell. The hex wasn’t the sort of magic any first year would know how to cast, anyway, which just made the whole situation even more alarming.

‘Mr. Potter talked you out of it? What was his involvement in all this?’

‘Just that. I told him I tricked Weasley into agreeing to a duel, and he said Weasley wasn’t worth wasting time on. So I didn’t.’

McGonagall left the boy go with a sinking feeling that nothing about this was what it appeared to be. The students were told not to circulate irresponsible rumours about the incident and to focus on their schoolwork as members of the faculty investigated it further, which, of course, meant all kinds of wild speculations quickly spread all over the school.

‘Whoever is responsible must face a severe punishment, Albus,’ she had said, her tone devoid of her usual composure, ‘This is far more than just an offense against school rules. Merlin, if Mr. Longbottom hadn’t found Mr. Weasley in time…’

‘They will be held accountable for their actions, Minerva, when the truth comes out,’ Albus had agreed. McGonagall wasn’t oblivious to the weariness behind his eyes, and for a second, she wondered whether he knew more than she did.

 _When_ , not _if_. She only wished that was the case.

A week had passed, and Ron Weasley still hadn’t regained consciousness. According to Madam Pomfrey’s estimation, it was possible he might even miss his final exams. For the fifth time today, McGonagall caught students exchanging whispers in the hallway, and she told them off sternly, despite fully knowing it was of no use. She turned a corner, and found Potter and Malfoy conversing in front of the hourglasses that recorded House points—Slytherin was safely in the lead. Malfoy was telling Potter something, and seemed very irritated.

‘—wouldn’t stop saying I hired an older student to do it,’ he snorted, ‘as if I couldn’t put Weasley in his place myself, if I wanted to. I wish they’d just stop pestering me about it—it’s even more annoying than the people trying to high-five me in the common room.’

‘Think on the bright side, Draco. At least everyone knows better than to cross you now,’ Potter replied casually. Draco looked at him, silent for a moment, before shaking his head and letting out a sigh, ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I wish the Weasley brat would just wake up already and clear up the whole thing. All these rumours are getting out of control.’

Potter narrowed his eyes at him, still wearing a faint smile. ‘Never thought I’d hear that from you,’ he said.

The whole interaction unsettled McGonagall deeply, and she quickly shooed them to their next class. For the first time in a long time, she felt herself on the verge of a headache.

///

Because Harry’s tutoring sessions with Professor Quirrell had progressed so quickly, they were able to go through the content of the whole book before Christmas break. Harry felt terribly disappointed and bereft when he realised their sessions were coming to an end—over the course of these months, he had come to know the Professor better, and his fondness of him had only increased exponentially. Harry confided in him, told him things he never thought he’d reveal to anyone, and he didn’t have to ask to know his trust was reciprocated. He was relaxed enough around Harry that his habit to stutter showed itself less and less as time went on, until it disappeared entirely.

The more Harry learned about the theory and history behind the Dark Arts, the more he was fascinated, especially by certain ancient spells and rituals. There was an elegance to their intricacy, the way they harnessed magical energy and created order from chaos; even the most advanced magic that was taught at Hogwarts paled in comparison. It wasn’t long before he found himself aching to take his learning to the next step—from theory to application. The mere thought of this gave him so much excitement that he tossed and turned at night, his mind racing, imagining how what it was like to feel such power course through his body and overtake his senses.

The book said the first time a wizard used a spell that was truly Dark changed them, in a subtle yet permanent way, like an invisible mark branded onto their very soul. The Unforgivables, in particular, affected the caster irreversibly in more ways than one. Those of weaker will could easily succumb to the rush they brought, until their sanity eroded away, and their magic controlled them instead of the other way around.

How old was Tom Riddle when he cast his first Killing Curse? What did it feel like to him, when he lowered the wand and his victim’s body was limp on the floor—when the realisation of having taken a life with his own hands sank in? Harry lost himself in those questions. The fact that their wands were bound by some inseverable link made his imagination run wild. Would it be too far of a stretch to think wands could connect their masters—that somehow, their paths were meant to mirror each other? He put a finger to his scar, and smiled at the thought, his heart drumming in his ears.

These thoughts that took shape in the dead of night slowly found their way into his daytime activities. They were so much more interesting than anything his professors had to say that Harry found it impossible to focus in class; he had little appetite at meals and little patience for socialising. It almost physically hurt every time he held his wand, knowing the spell he was about to perform was so incredibly mundane compared to everything that had been cast by its twin. His temper flared at the thought, he was sure some professors had noticed, judging from the startled and worried looks he sometimes received.

It wasn’t long before he decided he couldn’t stand it anymore.

‘I want to learn more than theory,’ he said to Quirrell, ‘I understand if you don’t want to tutor me any further, sir—I am really grateful for all you’ve done for me, and I would never want you to get in trouble, but I won’t give up on the idea, with or without your help.’

His heart nearly stopped when he looked at the professor, and found no surprise in his expression. On the contrary, it was as if the man had been expecting this for a long time, and was waiting for him to finally say it.

‘This will require the utmost discretion, Potter,’ he said, ‘and I will get you another wand.’

Harry could have kissed him.

Following Quirrell’s instructions, he found the secret room that was located opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching ballet. This room had to be one of Hogwarts’ most mind-blowing secrets, because it changed itself in response to a person’s greatest needs. Harry needed a place where he could practice Dark spells without being detected, so that was what it created. Whoever sent Harry his father’s Invisibility Cloak for his Christmas present had his immense gratitude, because it meant Harry could come to access the room whenever he wanted, without having to worry about being spotted. It was simply perfect.

It wasn’t often Quirrell could actually come to the Room to instruct Harry, as he had many engagements as a teacher, and it wasn’t always easy to get away from his colleagues without arousing suspicion. But that wasn’t too much of an obstacle, since what little time he could spend instructing Harry was used very efficiently, and spellwork relied hugely on trial and error anyway.

Harry was a fast learner. He started with some jinxes that were more complicated than the ones he already knew, and quickly worked his way up to hexes. Harry slowly began to understand why the book said Dark magic could cause the erosion of sanity. Casting powerful Dark spells was just as much about maintaining focus as it was about letting go. Too much caution hindered their power. In order to bring out their optimal potency, the caster must open themselves fully to the flow of the magic, and allow it to guide their movement. Harry gasped when he experienced it properly for the first time. There was a momentary blank, when all logical sense was emptied from his mind and there was nothing left but him and the spell at his command; magic hummed in the air and in his veins and at his fingertips, directed by his will, and it felt like he could do anything at all and there wasn’t a single thing in the entire universe that could stand in his way.

 _Freedom._ That was what it felt like.

Harry told Quirrell he couldn’t wait to get to the curses—not the ones easily countered, the real ones. This seemed to amuse the man. ‘You believe you could successfully cast an advanced curse, at eleven years old?’

Harry raised an eyebrow in protest, ‘I thought we both agreed age is only a number, Professor. Besides, I bet the Dark Lord was able to do it when he was my age—why wouldn’t I be?’

His teacher huffed. ‘You are not ready, Potter,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘not when there are advanced hexes you still can’t cast satisfactorily.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like the Sealing Hex, remember?’ he reminded Harry, unmoved by his insistence. ‘It is undoubtedly a complicated spell, and it’s completely normal that you struggle with it—however, if you wish to convince me you are ready to move on to difficult curses, mastering hexes this advanced is the bare minimum requirement.’

Harry thought about it.

‘Challenge accepted, Professor,’ he said after a moment, ‘I’ll show you proof of my mastery over that hex within this week.’

‘Quite an ambitious claim, Potter. If you fail, you will make no more demands and continue your training at the pace I deem fit.’

‘Deal,’ Harry smiled.

///

The Sealing Hex, despite its name, had nothing to do with sealing letters or doors. It was the less potent form of an ancient curse, special in that it was not to be performed on living beings, but inanimate objects only. It transferred the caster’s malice to be sealed within the object, so that if anyone beside the caster had physical contact with it, they would be severely injured or even killed by the hostile magic it carried. Nifty for dealing with enemies, but difficult to cast—when cast improperly, the hostile energy turned on itself and destroyed the object completely.

Harry practiced the hex on water glasses, since the book said it worked best on objects that were inconspicuous, and by the time he agreed to the challenge, he must have destroyed more than fifty of them. It was a good thing he could just make the Room provide them in infinite supply, or the house elves in the kitchen would have started getting suspicious.

Out of all the possible hexes, why was this the one he couldn’t crack? It frustrated Harry to no end. He didn’t put a time constraint on the challenge as a spur-of-the-moment decision, but as a way to push himself to his limits. That was the difference between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, he thought. Both welcomed challenges, but one did it to prove themselves, the other, to _better_ themselves.

That week, Harry barely had any sleep. He attempted the spell again and again, until its incantation sounded more familiar to him than his own name, until he started to lose his voice and his arm was sore from all the wand-waving.

Two days passed. Then three, and four. He almost broke enough glasses for the entire school to drink from. Not one successful casting.

The sound of another glass cracking, then deafening silence. He stared blankly at the shards, and couldn’t contain it any longer. ‘ _Deprimo,_ ’ he spat out the spell like it was the vilest curse in the world, and the lights went dark with a shattering sound. The floor was covered in glittering shards—reminders of his failure. In the dimness of the room, he saw the reflection of his own eyes. They stared back at him, a bright and uncanny green, like that flash of light in his dreams. His figure stood there, slim and small, enveloped by layers of shadows, the darkness about to swallow him whole.

He had made a stupid gamble. Was that it? Time to admit defeat? The eyes that stared from the shards were cold enough to be lifeless. He was so tired, he could feel his knees starting to give away.

Quirrell wouldn’t be disappointed by his failure, because he never expected to succeed in the first place. This had nothing to do with failing his teacher. If he couldn’t do this, he had failed himself.

He wanted to find out his limits. Was this it?

The hand that held his wand was shaking. In his sleep-deprived mind, anger, shame and disappointment melt into one another like smears of ink, and in the thick blackness it created, doubt started to creep in.

For this long, he thought his scar and his wand somehow marked him special, that just because he survived the Dark Lord’s curse, he could hope to one day match his greatness, that he could break free and remake himself, that he would never be that helpless boy who curled up in his cupboard hugging his knees ever, _ever_ again, that perhaps—yes, in his wildest and most feverish imaginings—perhaps some day he would offer his strength to the greatest dark wizard alive, and be accepted by his side.

He closed his eyes, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe.

But he wasn’t about to give in, he told himself. No, not yet. If he didn’t want to be treated like a child, he shouldn’t act like one. One failure meant nothing. Even the greatest wizards failed. He had aimed high, so high that the way down was both easy and tempting and one slip was all it took to fall back to the bottom.

Tom Riddle never looked down.

Neither should he.

///

The next day, he was determined not to be distracted by anything else while he was in his lessons. It wasn’t as if obsessing over it would miraculously help him succeed, and he really couldn’t afford to space out all the time, not when there were House points and his image at stake. Gryffindor never stopped trying to take the Cup away from them, and Harry would throw himself off the Astronomy Tower if Slytherin lost because of him.

In Transfiguration, they were practicing the Avifors Spell, which could transform small objects into birds. Harry thought the spell was straightforward enough, but it still took him a few tries to get it right. He apparently didn’t do too bad, though, since most of his classmates were still waving their wands furiously by the time he was done. The only other person who cast it successfully was Hermione Granger, and the boy sitting beside her—Harry believed his name was Longbottom—was obviously struggling. His bird didn’t move and looked extremely misshapen to the point of being almost unrecognisable, like something out of a Picasso painting. Longbottom looked horribly ashamed when Professor McGonagall went over to inspect his progress.

‘Tell me, Mr. Longbottom, what are you thinking when you cast the spell?’ she asked him. When his face went red, she sighed and added, ‘I am not criticising you, simply trying to identify why your casting failed. Do answer the question.’

‘That—that I want it to turn into a bird?’ Longbottom tried.

Professor McGonagall nodded. ‘I see—that is why you fail. The spell cannot work properly when you only have the vague desire of transforming what sits before you into a bird in your mind. You must picture the bird, make the image of it as specific and vivid as possible, give it movement—give it life. Remember, Mr. Longbottom, it is our will that drives the magic and allows it to take effect. The specificity of intent is everything.’

Harry’s wand dropped and hit the table hard, the sound causing Draco to turn and look at him with confusion.

‘That’s it,’ Harry muttered, ‘the specificity of intent…’

‘What? What are you on about now?’

 _The specificity of intent is everything._ That was it! How did he never think of that before? The same rule applied to the hex! Once hexed, the object would be able to hurt anyone who touched it besides its creator, but the book said the process of creating it required malice. Malice couldn’t come from nothing. Merely having the desire to hurt _someone_ was not enough.

For the magic to work, he needed to have a victim in mind.

‘Draco,’ he smiled pleasantly, ‘didn’t you say you agreed to have a duel with Weasley tomorrow?’

///

‘And you are sure you took care of all the evidence?’

‘Yes. I waited until no one else was awake, then snuck out in my Invisibility Cloak, retrieved the note, disposed it in the fireplace and made sure all of it was burnt.’

‘You took a great risk.’

‘What risk?’ Harry asked innocently. ‘Even if someone got to him before me, it wasn’t my handwriting on the note. I used one of those enchanted quills. Sure, since it was addressed to Weasley, Draco would be under suspicion, but he was going to be anyway.’

Quirrell was silent for a long while. He paced back and forth in the room, before stopping and looking Harry straight in the eye.

‘The Weasley boy was hurt badly,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘There’s a chance he will still be unconscious at the end of this term.’

Harry wasn’t shaken. He knew how much damage the thing could do when he created it. ‘I made sure it wouldn’t kill him,’ he said.

‘You still seriously injured him.’

‘I didn’t mean I feel bad for him,’ Harry narrowed his eyes and clarified coolly, ‘If I made it more powerful and it managed to kill him, they might stop all the classes or even shut down the school, and I would very much like not to return to my aunt and uncle.’

There was another long and uncomfortable silence. Harry held the professor’s stare, not backing down an inch.

What was this about? He thought, starting to feel irritated. Did Quirrell think he had gone too far? _Oh, Merlin, that is rich._ He was the one who told Harry to do it in the first place, and after all they’d talked about and all the things they’d shared, Harry would think he, of all people, would understand.

Maybe he was wrong to trust him. Quirrell was a Ravenclaw, after all, and this seemed exactly like the sort of thing Ravenclaws would do—being willing to learn knowledge that was frowned upon, but getting cold feet the moment there was an actual cost to pay. What was he going to do? Turn Harry in?

 _I’m not going to allow that to happen,_ Harry thought simply. Once he realised the worst scenario, it was as if a different part of him automatically took control, and his anger subsided to cold detachment. He weighed his options. They were in the Room of Requirement right now, so no need to worry about witnesses or being overheard. Harry would have to take him by surprise—he wasn’t stupid enough to think he stood a chance against Quirrell in an actual fight. Within the range of spells he knew, there were several ways to restrain an opponent’s movement, including one of the curses he already knew how to use—the Full Body-Bind. But Quirrell might have a way of freeing himself as long as he was still conscious. No, best to knock him out. And he had to do it fast.

‘I’m…I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have said that.’ Harry let his expression soften, and took a small step forward. Not enough to alarm him. ‘I just...I don’t know what came over me,’ he said, his voice wavering just enough to be convincing. Quirrell was a smart man, but Harry had the advantage of being an eleven-year-old. People let their guard down around children.

Quirrell had turned away now, his head hanging low, so Harry couldn’t read his expression. Was he struggling to decide what to do? Let him struggle. If he was conflicted, there was even less of a chance he’d be quick enough to react.

‘I should turn myself in, shouldn’t I? You’re…You’re right, I can’t believe I thought it was okay to hurt that boy. It just feels…so good to cast out Dark spells—it does something to me, to my mind, and…makes me feel like I’m not myself…’

Now he was close enough he couldn’t possibly miss. Harry’s hand reached for his wand, as he thought blankly, _What a shame._ The sting of betrayal never hit him—he would deal with that later, once this was done.

But something stopped him before he could raise his wand. An invisible force took hold of his arm, so strong that any attempt to break free was feeble. Harry’s eyes widened, and his heart sank.

Quirrell turned, and there was no wand in his hand. He was smiling. That same smile Harry saw on him whenever he gave a perfect answer.

‘Yes,’ he said in a hushed, satisfied voice, ‘you make a fine student, Harry Potter.’

Harry thought he must be dreaming.

Quirrell’s lips didn’t move.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The fourth chapter will likely take longer to write, since I'm a bit busy this time of year and I wouldn't want to rush things. I'm really grateful for the amazing support people have shown--can't thank you guys enough! I really enjoy writing this story, and I'm so glad someone else finds it enjoyable.)
> 
> -

_What am I doing?_ Hermione asked herself. She could hear the voices of students passing by, growing distant until all was silent again. She had stayed in here for too long. People must be noticing her absence by now. Some girls heard her crying; they must have spread it around, maybe even told the professors. _Hermione Granger is crying in the bathroom stall, sir, and she wouldn’t come out._ How her professors must think of her…Shame and embarrassment rose in her chest, and her eyes started to water again.

She knew what she was doing was childish, and wasn’t going to solve any problem. But that was the thing. _Nothing_ could solve her problems now, she thought, closing her eyes and rubbing them with the back of her trembling hand. Nothing. Maybe Draco Malfoy, as vile and cruel as he was, was right all along. Nobody liked her. The wannabe model student, the teacher’s pet, the annoying know-it-all.

It was a moment before she heard someone’s footsteps approaching, and it sounded like they stopped somewhere very close—like they stopped right at the open bathroom door. Hermione stayed quiet, waiting for them to go away.

Instead, she was startled to hear the voice of a boy.

‘Are you inside, Hermione? I—I’m sorry, it’s weird for me to come near here. But I heard from someone that you were…’ His voice trailed off for a moment. It was very soft, very gentle, and slightly awkward. ‘Sorry if I’m bothering you. Do you…Is there anything I can do to help?’

Hermione recognised that voice. ‘Harry Potter…?’ she asked, her embarrassment momentarily forgotten in confusion and surprise. Then she remembered. ‘If you’re here to mock me, there’s no longer any need,’ she snapped out, ‘You can go back to your friend Draco, and congratulate him on his success at humiliating me.’

The boy was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, he sounded very ashamed. ‘I’m sorry that Draco said those things. I should’ve stopped him, but…I was too scared to stand up to him. If he stopped being friends with me, I’ll be all alone in Slytherin and…I’m sorry, that’s no excuse. You have every right to tell me to go to hell, Hermione. I’ll go if you want me to. It’s just…I’m worried about you. The others are too.’

‘What others?’ Hermione asked, her voice cracking again. She looked down at her hands, which were wet with her tears, feeling very small and very foolish. ‘I don’t have friends. Even my housemates hate me.’

‘That’s not true, Hermione,’ Harry said softly. ‘I know some people can be a bit…sour, but that’s just because you know so much, and you always do so well at everything. They’re jealous of you. But there are people who genuinely want to be your friends, too. But you keep to yourself a lot, and they feel they can’t approach you. There are people that will be there for you, if you let them in.’

Hermione gave a weak chuckle that might as well have been a whimper. ‘You don’t know me, Harry Potter. How would you know any of that?’

‘You’re right. I don’t. But…I want to, Hermione. I want to help you…I know there was a lot I could have done that I didn’t do, and that I haven’t been a good person. But I want to be better. Please…All I ask is that you give me a chance. I understand what you’re feeling right now—I do…because I feel alone too.’

Hermione was about to open her mouth and tell him to just go and leave her alone, before she stopped. He was right. There were times when he could have stood up to Malfoy if he wanted to, like all those times he had mocked her and called her names before, but he had done nothing. But did that make him a horrible, unforgivable person? Hermione thought of all the times she watched other students pass through the courtyard in groups, chatting idly, sharing jokes or gossips, how her heart ached when she imagined what it would be like to be among them. Harry thought he found a friend in Draco Malfoy. Even if he knew the right thing to do, by going against his only friend, he would be left with nothing and no one again. He was afraid.

Hermione understood that all too well.

She sniffed, wiping her eyes again before standing up slowly, and opening the stall door. The boy was standing in the hallway, looking at her with apologetic eyes. He gave a small smile of surprise and encouragement when she came to the door.

‘I don’t want to go back to the Great Hall,’ she said, looking down. She hated how much she sounded like a spoiled child, but Harry only nodded understandingly, as if he already expected her to say that.

‘I know. It’s okay. I snuck some food out, and we can eat in an empty classroom. No one will come to bother us.’

 _Why are you doing this, Harry Potter?_ She wanted to say. But then she saw his eyes, how they were bright with happiness and relief, as if what just happened was the best thing in the world and almost too good to be true.

‘How did you manage to sneak the food out?’ she heard herself ask instead.

Harry grinned mysteriously, and gestured at the hallway.

‘I’ll tell you later.’

///

Harry’s mind was blank before it started to race furiously.

_What just happened? How—how did he…Was he in a dream? Was this all some sort of hallucination?_

His mentor was pacing around him slowly, deliberately, like a hunter toying with their prey. Gone was the guilt, the doubt, the indecision. His eyes now glistened with a look of intense focus, bringing something foreign to his features—making him look exactly, unmistakably, like the man in Harry’s dreams.

 _This man_ …

‘Who are you?’ Harry asked shakily, when he finally found his voice.

The man’s smile widened.

‘You never cease to surprise me, Harry Potter,’ he said, as he stopped before Harry, and cupped his chin with a cold hand, studying him unhurriedly.

Harry’s scar burned with a sudden flash of pain, but it barely registered—there was only one thing now that occupied his attention. His body was stiff and motionless, as if it wasn’t just his arm that had been frozen in place, and his heart drummed like it was about to leap out of his chest. A part of him was dazed and dizzy, not understanding what was happening, yet another part of him was more awake than ever.

‘What…?’ His voice was weak enough to be inaudible.

‘Watching the old man’s face when his precious saviour of the Light was sorted into Slytherin was amusing, I must admit, but not enough to truly catch my attention—not all who are accepted into the great House are worthy, after all. But you…You persistently intrigued me. Such hunger, such drive, and—yes, such ambition…How you must have made the old fool squirm with uneasiness.

‘A library of sanctioned knowledge could not satisfy you…Of all the people you could have asked, you turned to Quirrell for help—your meek, pathetic Defense professor, who could barely string a sentence together? I knew then that I had to speak to you, and your request happened to offer the perfect opportunity. I did wonder, for a time, if all this could have been an elaborate ploy set up by Dumbledore, using you to draw me out, hoping I would take control of my servant and somehow reveal myself…But that was not at all the case, was it? Imagine my pleasant surprise, when you had instead revealed yourself to me…’

The hand brushed aside Harry’s bangs, and a finger traced over his scar. Harry could have stopped breathing. As he listened to those words, a thought slowly began to take shape in the back of his mind, but surely… _Surely it was ludicrous, this was all a dream, and he was going to wake up—and be disappointed…_

‘You have given me insight into your mind, your very nature…’ he whispered, and Harry shuddered at the feel of his breath in his ear. ‘And with your handling of my challenge, I decided the time has come for the courtesy to be returned. Tell me, Harry Potter—do you now know the answer to your question?’

Harry’s knees were weak, and he could have collapsed, if the part of him that was wide awake and still somewhat logical didn’t take over upon hearing the question addressed to him. His free hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into his skin, and the pain forcefully brought his mind back from the shock and disbelief, reminding him how utterly shameful it would be to lose all dignity in this moment. In front of this man.

‘You are…You are _him_ …’ he breathed, the words sounding surreal to his own ears.

Suddenly everything made sense. His inexplicable desire to place trust in the man, his comfort in his presence, his recurring dreams.

‘Yes…Here we are at last. Now, I believe it is your turn to answer a question of mine,’ Voldemort narrowed his eyes and smiled. ‘What will the legendary Harry Potter do, when his finds himself face-to-face with his parents’ killer?’

Harry felt the restraint on his wrist vanish. He stood there, dazed and wordless, as the silence stretched on.

Then he shut his eyes, and let himself remember the screams from his dreams, the scene that sometimes flashed before his eyes. His mother, pleading for his life, shielding him with her body before she was devoured by the eerie green light.

Was there ever a time when all of it pained him, haunted him, enraged him? What about before he came to Hogwarts? Didn’t he often wish the horrible ‘accident’ never took his parents away from him? Didn’t he miss them?

 _No, I wasn’t missing them,_ Harry answered himself with the detachment of a bystander. He wanted them back, because he wanted the Dursleys gone from his life. Nothing less…and nothing more. What was stopping him from admitting this outright? Some arbitrary sense of right and wrong that had been imposed on him? After all he had done, all he had been though, was he afraid to let himself be who he was, because _someone else wouldn’t approve_? Hadn’t he had enough of that by now?

There was nothing else to be said. Once the decision was made, he came to terms with the statement calmly and easily in his mind.

_If only abhorrent monsters feel no guilt or shame in admiring their parents’ murderer, then I am one._

‘They never said it in the books,’ he said, as he pocketed his wand, ‘but you are a great teacher.’

Voldemort laughed—a high, cold laugh that was just like what Harry would have imagined. ‘You do not accuse me of deceiving you, boy? Of twisting your mind, corrupting you with forbidden knowledge?’

‘I wanted to learn,’ Harry said. ‘If you hadn’t offered me your assistance, the only difference is I would have tried to study it all by myself, and spent much more time accomplishing much less.’

‘And what of your parents? I took their lives before I attempted to take yours. Do you not wish to avenge their deaths?’

‘Maybe I should. I know I’m expected to. But they were never a part of my life, and I’ve grown to be the person I am in their absence. Maybe that’s why there’s something wrong with me,’ Harry tilted his head, ‘and why I can’t feel what I’m supposed to feel. Do you know what I think about, every time I picture the night they died? I think about you. I think about what might have happened to you when the spell backfired, and find myself trying to believe you didn’t really die. After all, death is such a…such a _human_ thing, like an imperfection—a kind of…weakness. If the potential of magic is supposed to be limitless, then the ones who have mastered it to its fullest, who has explored all its secrets, must be able to free themselves from these “human” limits—I’ve thought about this again and again, ever since I learned about you and the magical world… And it turns out I was right…’ His voice became hushed towards the end, filled with fascination.

Right then, there was a wild gleam to Voldemort’s eyes, like what Harry said had just given him the satisfaction of enjoying the greatest irony in the entirety of history.

‘And if I were to tell you many lives—innocent lives, human and non-human alike—had been sacrificed so I could conquer death and stand before you now?’

‘How?’ Harry asked. He felt lighter than air with surreal joy—all this time, _it was true, and he was right._ The way up was clear, and the figure from his dreams beckoned him from the summit… ‘Will you show me? …Will you teach me?’

Voldemort laughed that same laugh again, his voice almost sounding youthful. Suddenly, his hands seized Harry’s shoulders with force that stopped short of hurting him.

‘And to think I ever resolved to kill you…’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The fault hardly lies with me—I never heard the full prophecy, after all…But destiny has led us here against all odds. I could lead you down this path again, Harry Potter, if that is what you truly desire…The old fool will live to see what you’ll become, the rue the day he was born.’

There was a meaning to those words that Harry wasn’t privy to, but it didn’t matter to him.

He knew what he heard, and understood all he needed to.

///

They ate in silence, as Hermione let herself process the strangeness of the scenario. To find an unlikely companion in the boy she’d read so much about, after all this time… She had judged him too harshly because of the company he kept. For all the fame he had, he was still just a boy her age, with his own fears and insecurities.

‘Hogwarts is not everything I thought it would be, when I first learned about it…’ Harry suddenly said, still looking down at his food, ‘but I still like it here. I’m glad I could come.’

Hermione smiled a small smile to herself. ‘Me too,’ she said quietly.

‘It’s only been a year, but already, I even can’t even imagine going back to my old life. It’s…amazing, knowing magic exists, although it can also be a bit…scary, sometimes.’

Hermione knew exactly what he meant. She couldn’t stop thinking about that poor boy who got hexed and still hadn’t woken up. He was a bit rude, and she never particularly liked him, but no one deserved to have this happen to them, especially in their first year at school. She saw his brothers near the hospital wing once, on their way out after a visit, and the looks on their faces made her heart weigh heavily in her chest.

‘The boy in the hospital wing…’ she muttered, ‘They still haven’t caught the one who hexed him, have they…?’

He turned to look at her, slightly biting his lips, like he was trying to decide whether to tell her something. ‘I wonder sometimes,’ he said at last, still a bit hesitant, ‘if there is something going on at Hogwarts.’

She was perplexed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you remember what the Headmaster told us, after the sorting ceremony? He gave us that ominous warning…’

‘You mean…when he said the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side was off limits to everyone who didn’t want to die a horrible death? I thought he was just making an odd joke…’

‘I did too, until I saw how serious everyone else was,’ Harry said uneasily. ‘The thing is, I’ve been doing some thinking… And I think I might know a little bit more about it than everybody else does, because of what I saw.’

‘What you saw…?’

‘When I went to get money for school supplies, Hagrid was with me, since I didn’t know anything about the magical world and couldn’t get around by myself… And he took me to another vault, after we went to mine—he said it was a top secret, that he needed to get something from there…for the Headmaster.’

Hermione’s eyes widened. ‘It must have been something really important!’

‘It must have,’ Harry agreed, ‘especially since not long after, I saw on the newspaper that the vault was broken into by a powerful dark wizard. They never caught who it was, but knew they had left empty-handed, because what was in the vault was already retrieved.’

Hermione was silent for a moment, before the pieces clicked into place in her mind. She couldn’t help but gasp. ‘You’re saying—you think it’s here, at Hogwarts? The thing that Hagrid took for Professor Dumbledore? But…what does that have to do with Ron Weasley—’ she stopped herself, a look of realisation and horror crossing her face. ‘No…You don’t think…!’

‘Why not? Think about it! Students have overheard Professor McGonagall saying the hex that hurt Ron was a powerful Dark spell, and not taught at Hogwarts. People suspect Draco, but all the portraits can confirm they didn’t see him out of his dorm that night, and more importantly, he’s a first year like us! He couldn’t have cast the spell if he wanted to. It must have been someone older, someone who knows the Dark Arts well…’

‘But how could they have gotten into Hogwarts? It’s one of the most securely protected places in the world…! And why would they hex a first-year student?’

‘Maybe Ron saw something he shouldn’t, so they made sure he wouldn't be able to talk.’

Hermione stood up. ‘We—we have to tell the professors about this! If even there’s a chance this is true…’

Harry put a hand on her shoulder, his face more serious than she had ever seen it.

‘I already tried talking to Professor McGonagall about it, Hermione. She told me not to “concern myself with baseless conjecture,” and sent me back to class. They won’t listen to us. Nobody will take us seriously. I know you respect our teachers more than anything, and I’m not calling you wrong. I’m just saying, let’s think about this…rationally. We don’t have anything to back up our theory. Right now, there is nothing connecting Ron Weasley’s incident with the break-in at Gringotts. Ron is hurt badly, but worse things have happened at Hogwarts, and he’s guaranteed to recover, so everyone thinks it’s a prank gone wrong, pulled by some older student. They don’t realise the danger we could be in, and they probably won’t until it’s too late.’

Hermione was silent.

She didn’t want to admit it, but every word he said made sense. He wasn’t like a lot of her housemates—he was like her, thinking carefully and logically, taking all the facts into account. She may not have liked what he said, but she couldn’t refute it.

‘Fine,’ she finally conceded, ‘then what do you think we should do? There has to be something…’

‘I have an idea, but…you’re not going to like it. I might have gone to the corridor on the third floor, to confirm my assumption—’ ‘You _what_?!’ ‘—and turns out I was completely right,’ Harry continued calmly. ‘I found a trapdoor there, guarded by a…giant creature. A three-headed dog. I had to get out of there before it noticed me, but if you help me, the next time I go there, I’ll be prepared.’

‘Harry, that’s _crazy_ ,’ Hermione said, not sure if she was more shocked or angry. ‘What do you mean _prepared_? You’re planning to go back?’

‘There’s a piece of magic I read from a book—a sort of detection spell, works a bit like muggle detectors. If you help me put the creature to sleep, I can set up the spell on the trapdoor. If anyone opens the trapdoor, we will not only know when the spell is triggered, but who triggered it. Then we’ll have proof, and the professors will have to listen to us.’

‘How did you manage to learn a spell that advanced?’

‘I can teach you, if you help me with this.’

Every instinct was telling Hermione to say no. He had broken the school rules, and she should report him for it. But if they were right, they could be the only people who realised how much threat the school was under.

Would she be able to forgive herself, if she did nothing, and someone else got hurt because of it?

‘Okay,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll help you. But I’m going to be very mad if you get us killed.’

Harry had the audacity to laugh.

///

What a funny thing fate was, even one of his own making.

When he arrived at Godric’s Hollow that night, he never thought twice about what had to be done. The prophecy must not come to fruition, and the boy’s parents had already sealed their fates by unwisely opposing him. It would all be quick and simple.

But time in exile had given him perspective. Prophesies were said to be self-fulfilling, and it was careless of him to dismiss the idea so quickly, and act on information that was incomplete. Regardless of past oversights, he now clearly understood one thing. Once he recovered enough of his power, he must seek out the boy who survived his curse—how he dealt with Harry James Potter would be integral to the shaping of his own future.

After eleven long years, he had at last been afforded the chance. He met the boy at Leaky Cauldron, and was mildly surprised by how quiet and well-mannered he was, despite being the spitting image of his unruly father. Then, a surprise greater still, when the Hat sorted him into Slytherin, and the boy looked self-satisfied as he joined his housemates at the table, as if he never expected any other outcome.

Then, the boy’s behaviour in class. Harry Potter constantly demonstrated outstanding talent and knowledge, and always lowered his head to give a slightly self-conscious smile at others’ praise. Voldemort was never fooled for a second. Potter had not an ounce of modesty in him—he relished respect and recognition, but cleverly put on a pleasant and likeable front so as not to unnecessarily antagonise others. Indeed, so many fell for it, students and teachers alike. Voldemort knew, because this was all too familiar.

He didn’t know whether to be more amused or bemused, when Potter asked for his aid in his little research project, and admitted he was intrigued by _the Dark Lord_ ’s mastery over the Dark Arts. Those green eyes were bright, gleaming with an insatiable hunger that would not let itself be denied—Voldemort could almost be back in time, looking into a mirror.

The more he saw, the more he began to wonder.

He would have been alarmed when Potter began talking about how he thought the Dark Lord wasn’t as dead as people believed, but the boy’s mind was unguarded as an open book, and Voldemort found nothing but genuine interest.

And…yes, Potter’s most intriguing view on death. _‘I know if I were him, I would have taken precautions just for just sort of thing,’_ he had said, _‘People say death is just a natural part of life, as if wanting to defy it is something horrible, but if someone had the ability to do so, why shouldn’t they?’_ Voldemort could have laughed. If only Dumbledore could hear him—his precious boy, unfazed by the idea of sacrificing human lives in exchange for immortality.

He didn’t believe in coincidences. There were too many strange likenesses between them—half-blood, orphans, raised by muggles, cunning, ambitious, magically talented, unwilling to settle for anything less than the best… They even _looked_ something alike. What did the prophecy really say? _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..._

 _This bond that exists between us, this connection that seems to draw us together infinitely, until either could forget where the self of one starts and where the other’s ends…_ Voldemort looked at him now, and there was not a lingering doubt in his mind.

Harry Potter held a piece of his soul. Of course—the irony of it was almost beautiful. When it came to all the greatest heroes in history and mythology, there was always only one thing that could destroy them, and often did.

Themselves.

The slightest deviation could have led them on an entirely different path, in a world where this meeting never took place, and Voldemort never came to this pivotal realisation.

_But here we are now, reunited at last._

‘I will retrieve this…Philosopher’s Stone for you. Whatever it takes. I will manage it before the end of the year, and no one will be any the wiser.’

‘As much as I trust your abilities,’ he said slowly, ‘there are several things you must realise, before we proceed any further. You are clever in your dealings with your teachers and your peers, as I was at your age, but I did not have anyone’s guidance—you do, now, so you will not be allowed to repeat my mistakes.’

Potter smiled, seeming to take this as a compliment instead of the criticism it was intended. Similar as they might be, he was still a child, Voldemort thought with mild exasperation. No matter. He always did learn fast.

‘I understand. Tell me, then. What am I doing wrong?’

‘You show your antisocial tendencies far too often—some people are bound to notice. Include more of your peers into your social circle, and I do not mean just maintaining cordial relations. You will spend time with them, make it convincing. You do realise the old fool is keeping a close watch on you, yes? Make friends with the kind of students that would be a “good influence” on you by his standards. Most ideally, someone from outside your House and of muggle or half-blood heritage.’

Potter made a face, but it was clear he was taking all of this to heart. ‘I could think of a few candidates,’ he said. ‘I’ll try.’

‘Be sure you do. And rid yourself of the habit of referring to me by my title. It is far too telling, and you were especially reckless to do it in front of Dumbledore. Needless to say, you will also refrain from showing your interest in the Dark Arts in any way when there are others present.’

‘I realise that wasn’t smart, but I couldn’t help myself… I’ll do better, from now on.’

Voldemort understood. When he met Dumbledore for the first time, he was carried away by learning his ‘abilities’ were in fact magic, and revealed far too much than was wise to the man. A mistake that did come back to haunt him.

‘You will,’ he said simply. ‘Now, I have given you all the information you need to retrieve the Stone—tell me, what is your plan?’

‘It can’t look like I had previous knowledge of the challenges,’ Harry mused. ‘To sell it convincingly, I’ll have to bring someone with me. Someone smart and capable… They’ll get hurt in one of the challenges, and I’ll have no choice but to leave them behind. I’ll come before the mirror to face Quirrell alone, retrieve the stone, then be knocked unconscious. Are you sure you’ll have no problem making your escape?’

Voldemort would have been furious if one of his servants questioned him in such a way, but right now, he might as well have been conversing with his own mind. The question was one he himself would ask, if their positions were reversed, and he knew it carried no doubt, only caution.

‘Do not concern yourself with it. Do your part, and do it well. By bringing someone with you, I assume you do not mean Lucius’ son?’

‘No, not Draco,’ Potter considered for a moment. ‘I’ll find someone more…expendable.’

He saw Voldemort’s approval, and was bolstered by it.

‘When you reunite yourself with your…horcrux to restore your body, will you let me come help with the ritual?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I’ll have the time. School’s almost over, after all.’


	4. Chapter 4

Manipulation, just like any other skill, required practicing, and Harry thought it was a practice he very much enjoyed. It was an exquisite art, observing people thoroughly enough to understand what made then tick, then subtly using that knowledge to your advantage, twisting their will to your own.

Tom Marvolo Riddle always excelled at his—Dumbledore himself confirmed that much, and Harry only wished he had attended Hogwarts the same time he did to see the master at work. Riddle amassed himself an army, right under the faculty’s noses. Could Harry achieve the same, if he tried hard enough? Maybe not. The conditions were hardly the same. Back in Riddle’s days, Dumbledore was only a professor; now he sat on the seat of the Headmaster, and though Harry might not always feel it, he knew Dumbledore kept a close eye on him at all times. Albus Dumbledore was too wise a wizard to not know a familiar pattern when he saw one. At least for now, Harry must play the role he was born into—the magical world’s much adored hero, The Boy Who Lived. He knew it was what Voldemort wanted him to do. He needed time to learn, to grow… It was easy being patient, when you knew you were going to be mentored by the man you most admired.

At the same time, he relished what little opportunities he had to indulge his more… ‘dubious’ tendencies. His friendship with Hermione Granger was his favourite project by far. It was fascinating how much you could get someone to open up to you, with some sweet talk and a few encouraging smiles—really, Harry hardly had to reveal anything about himself to know her entire life story. Her dentist muggle parents, her fascination about everything magic, her efforts to read up on every book about this world she could get her hands on before coming to Hogwarts, her insecurities bout having trouble making friends, her fear for isolation… She confided in him, Harry knew, in a way she had never confided in anybody else at the school, or perhaps anyone, period. This was trust. She trusted Harry, enough that Harry was certain he could pour her a drink laced with poison and make her down it without a second thought. Enough that when Harry started slipping his suspicion of Professor Quirrell into their conversations, she never once questioned whether he could be lying. Slowly but surely, he sowed the seeds of doubt and watched as they grew into poisonous vines, wrapping themselves around her unsuspecting mind. It seemed intelligence had little to do with gullibility after all. Harry remembered what Dumbledore said about Riddle never having any friends during his time at Hogwarts, and the melancholy tone he said it with, as if recounting some great tragedy. Tom Riddle had it right. He recognised how friendships made people vulnerable, and never allowed himself to develop such a weakness. To trust was to let someone else decide your fate.

Just as planned, Harry’s spell was triggered once Dumbledore was summoned away on Ministry business, making the circumstances as alarming as they could possibly be. Harry thanked Merlin for Professor McGonagall’s stoic disposition, which made it that much easier for him to convince Hermione running to her was not a good idea, that even if their explanation was not met with dismissal, by the time they got her to take their claims seriously, Quirrell would have already gotten away. There was a preciously panicked look on Hermione’s face, and even before she spoke, Harry knew the plan had worked perfectly.

‘We can’t let him get the stone! Then… Then this means, it’s all up to us…’

Indeed it was.

This was the first real task Harry had been entrusted with, and he would die before he allowed himself to fail. The Dark Lord said the last challenge was one he believed only Harry could pass, involving a mirror that had been enchanted with ancient mind magic to reflect a person’s deepest, most urgent desires… He believed Dumbledore must have somehow hidden the Stone inside it, mostly likely utilising the mirror’s unique properties of detecting concealed truths and hidden intentions, ensuring the Stone could never fall into the hands of someone who wanted it for their own gain. ‘Wouldn’t Quirrell be able to retrieve it, then?’ Harry had asked. ‘Quirrell has no ambition of his own, and only seeks to avoid my wrath,’ Voldemort had said, with a note of irritation at his servant’s spinelessness, ‘The mirror senses his greed, his weakness…’

It gave Harry pause. He wondered if it meant there was a chance he wouldn’t be able to retrieve the Stone either. He was doing it to prove himself, after all, which might also count as a kind of greed.

There was only one way to find out.

The three-headed dog was already put to sleep by the time Harry and Hermione arrived. They got past the Devil’s Snare easily enough—Harry let Hermione figure out the solution, just to see how much the witch really knew, and she did not disappoint. He was suddenly glad everything had been planned out as meticulously as it was, and he did not have to count on one of the challenges to injure her so he could leave her behind.

Who were they really trying to stop with these challenges, anyway? Harry was sure Hermione could’ve gotten past at least half of them all by herself. He always thought it was curious how Dumbledore simply announced the precise location of these dangers to a room full of potentially mischievous and rebellious students… Any one of them could have acquired access with a simple _Alohomora_. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the school was trying to get its students killed.

There was more to all of this than met the eye. The thought made Harry swallow, and he had to tell himself to stay concentrated. In front of him, the white king was surrendering his crown, as the rest of the chess pieces parted to allow them passage. Harry hurried toward the door, and left behind the enormous chessboard that was the perfect metaphor for his current situation—he was close to checkmate, too, in the game that really mattered. All he had to do was not be stupid.

He had faith in the plan. In _their_ plan.

Once again, he left it to Hermione to work out the riddle. It didn’t take her long to realise their dilemma. ‘It’s the smallest bottle, Harry,’ she explained with confidence, ‘That’s the one that will get us toward the Stone. But… Oh, no. There’s only enough left for one of us...’

‘It’ll have to be me,’ Harry said, and immediately saw the worry in Hermione’s eyes. She was afraid for him—how lovely. ‘You don’t know what’s ahead, Harry,’ she said weakly. ‘If Professor Quirrell is a dangerous dark wizard in disguise… for all we know, he could be serving You-Know-Who…!’

‘Even more reason for me to be the one to face him,’ Harry said, and let himself fully enjoy the irony of it all. ‘I know I have to do this, Hermione. You’ll go back, and get help. Convince the professors to come. You’ve always been better with people than I am, anyway.’

She pulled him into a tight hug, and Harry put a reassuring hand on her back. For what it was worth, he truly was thankful that she’d come along. It couldn’t be done without her.

He watched as Hermione took a long drink from the round bottle at the end, before her hand lost its grip, and it shattered to pieces on the floor. He caught her as she fell. Voldemort’s tampering of the potion had worked exactly as intended—she wasn’t going to wake for another hour. He laid her unconscious body down on the ground, then took his own drink, and braced himself for what awaited ahead.

He stepped through the roaring flames. They were cold, licking his skin and blurring his vision, but there was no hesitation in his steps.

In front of the mirror, the Dark Lord who wore his professor’s face smiled. Harry would have smiled back, if he wasn’t so nervous. Nothing had gone wrong so far, but Harry wasn’t going to celebrate until their prize was within his grasp. As pleasant as it was to converse with him as a wraith possessing another’s body, Harry was eager to see him restored to his true form—and, more importantly, his full power. It seemed criminal for _him_ to be trapped in the body of a servant…

‘I hope there were no complications,’ Voldemort drawled, his own way of offering a welcome.

‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’

‘Then come. Look into the mirror, and tell me what you see.’

Harry did as he was told. He found himself facing an ornate mirror that looked like it had witnessed and survived much history, the kind Harry would expect to find in the Malfoy Manor. His eyes quickly scanned the strange inscription on the top, before settling on his own reflection. A scrawny boy with raven hair stared back at him with bright green eyes, and he couldn’t help but remember that night, those same eyes, the suffocating shame, glass shards that glittered like fractured mirrors…

He suppressed a shiver. Was the mirror’s enchantment doing this to him? He blinked hard and looked again. Nothing changed, but that inexplicable sense of uneasiness remained. Something about his reflection felt…wrong. Almost as if it was another person entirely, standing on the other side.

Just as he was about to voice his confusion, the image started to change. The boy in the mirror smiled—startling Harry—before puffs of black smoke descended like shadows, gathering as they took on a certain shape… A new figure, emerging from the darkness. It was hooded man in long, black robes, who had about him such a powerfully commanding air that for a moment, Harry didn’t dare draw breath. There was a wand being idly twirled around in his hands, and Harry’s heart leapt at the sight. It wasn’t just any wand, but _the most powerful wand in existence_. How he knew this, he couldn’t say—he couldn’t describe the wand either, as much as that sounded ridiculous, since it was right before his eyes. It was like something whispered to him in a language he often heard, but didn’t speak… He felt himself reaching out, every part of him aching, in awe, in excitement, in overwhelming desire, drawn to a siren’s call, giddily helpless... Yet nothing but cold glass met his hand.

‘I see… A hooded man, standing there…’ he said breathlessly, ‘And…he’s won…’

He knew he didn’t make much sense. Voldemort, to his surprise, showed no sign of impatience. If anything, he sounded intrigued.

‘Tell me. What has he won?’

‘…Everything.’ _Everything there was. Everything he wanted or could ever want._

He withdrew his hand, trying to gather himself, but the mirror beckoned him and it was impossible to look away. _The mirror shows your deepest, most urgent desires._ This, then, was his. He suddenly understood why this was what guarded the Stone. What he saw didn’t feel like an illusion, or a dream… It felt like a vision. Of the future. And he could lose himself in that glorious feeling, sink deeper and deeper until he had not only forgotten what he was here for, but who he was. He could never leave.

‘That man…’ he muttered, to himself as much as to his mentor, ‘I can’t tell who he is. If it's me, or…you.’

What he didn’t say was _I think I know why_.

_Because it doesn’t matter._

He turned to see Voldemort smiling again. A different smile. One he had never seen before. It reminded him of the flames in his dreams, terrible and beautiful, promising to leave nothing unscorched in its wake.

‘You have told me, have you not,’ Voldemort said, in a voice unusually light, ‘that my wand and yours are twins? Have you ever wondered what it means?’

 _All the time,_ Harry thought, but it sounded overeager. In an effort to appear calmer than he was, he only nodded, and said, ‘I have, but…I wasn’t able to find much on it.’

‘There is an old tale…about two brothers, whose wands were connected just like ours. Their cores contained horns taken from the same creature, a mighty Horned Serpent. When an old foe came knocking on their door, threatening their family’s lives as well as their own, they joined forces to face their first real battle. And what a wonderful discovery they made, in that moment—when their wands were used against a common enemy, their powers increased tenfold, and they were able to hold their own, against an opponent who was far older, wiser and more powerful, a witch who was the noble descendant of Salazar Slytherin himself… Had they been a little more experienced, they could have even destroyed her completely.’

Harry had never heard of the story. He was left awestruck and speechless, his mind whirling, until he managed to get out, ‘Does… Does that mean…?’

‘It means, Harry Potter, that you and I are one.’

Voldemort’s hands were placed on his shoulders, and, with a gentleness that both surprised and reassured him, slowly spun him around to face the mirror once more.

‘ _Connected_ …for all eternity. Your power, your knowledge, your _soul_ , are mine, just as mine are yours. We do not share. We _own_ , as one. For you see, Harry, when I look into the mirror… I see the same thing you do.’

There was both too little and too much that registered in Harry’s mind. That their wands could join together to be unstoppable. That Voldemort had addressed him by only his name for the first time he could remember. That he said their minds—no, their very _souls_ were connected. That when they stared into their _deepest, most urgent_ desires, they saw exactly the same.

‘I wanted to learn everything about you…’ he said, almost unsure why he did. It all felt like a dream. Perhaps it was, from the moment he set foot in this world. Something his mind kindly conjured up, providing what little escape he could find from the life he so hated… Except he knew it wasn’t. Because he stood here. He stood with him.

‘How curious,’ he heard the man behind him say, ‘that I did the same.’

Harry closed his eyes. He could smile like an idiot later, when _his_ resurrection wasn’t at stake.

‘I have to get you the Stone,’ he said shakily, ‘but I can’t get it, can I? It’s like what you said about Quirrell—the mirror senses my “greed.” What are we going to do, then…? We’ve come too far to leave without it.’

‘This is indeed an unexpected development—it seems I had underestimated just how deep our bond runs… However, in light of the nature of our connection, I believe there may yet be a way to retrieve the Stone. If, that is, you are willing to take the risk…’

‘Whatever it is,’ Harry answered much too quickly, ‘I’ll do it.’

Voldemort laughed, though Harry couldn’t tell if he was pleased or amused. ‘Quirrell’s body provides a temporary host, but it is failing, as I knew it would when I attached myself to him. His powers are mediocre at best, not enough to nurture my strength—for the longest time, I was reduced to nothing but a face and a voice, unable to affect his actions, let alone take full control of this vessel… but all of this has changed because of you. Because you had willingly lowered your guard to me, through our connection, I was able to draw on your strength, even recover some of my magic. This is extraordinary, even to me, Harry—it makes me wonder how much I’d be able to do, if I were to directly take control of you.’

Despite how ominous-sounding it was, Harry simply furrowed his brows in curiosity. ‘You can do that?’

‘If you willingly accept it, yes. It should be easy, considering our souls are already joined. My control will not last long, but your body would enable me to cast magic much more powerful than I could otherwise perform in my current form. This mirror would then be no obstacle to us.’

Harry drew a sharp breath. ‘You’re saying…you can _break_ the mirror’s enchantment?’

‘That would be counterproductive. It must look like the Stone has been forcibly taken from you, after you retrieved it yourself. Breaking the enchantment would only arouse suspicion. All I need to do is confuse it.’

Ever the voice of reason, Harry thought in amazement. After all that just happened, that part of their plan had completely slipped his mind.

‘Then do it,’ he said, ‘I accept.’

In the mirror, he saw Quirrell collapse on the ground behind him. Then, for a moment, nothing—before all of a sudden, _coldness_ hit him with the force of a riptide, as though the blood in his veins was being flushed out of his body by icy water, and his skin was freezing over from the inside. Before he could gasp for air, the horrible sensation passed, and he was left feeling numb—and strangely calm. He couldn’t feel his limbs, or…anything at all. He was still there, seeing through his own eyes, but his movements were no longer his to command. It was a peculiar feeling, but he didn’t panic. He felt perfectly safe.

His hand reached for his wand, as he felt his lips curl into a smile. Then, in one fluid, elegant motion, his arm directed the wand at the mirror.

Harry understood little to nothing of the incantation that followed. All he could focus on was how much his voice sounded…different, coming out of his own mouth. Voldemort pronounced Latin gracefully, effortlessly, like he had spoken the language his whole life, and there was a certain forcefulness behind each syllable that was at once natural and commanding. It was not at all difficult to see why so many had surrendered their pride and rushed to his service. Listening to him, Harry could believe mountains would part, if he willed it so.

Then, the wand was lowered, and he felt Voldemort’s control start to diminish, until he could feel his arms and legs again. Something that wasn’t there before weighed heavily in his pocket.

‘That was _amazing_ ,’ he said, grinning. He usually didn’t allow himself to sound so childish, but just for this once, he didn’t care. He had the Philosopher’s Stone, the gateway to _immortality_ on the palm of his hand. Soon, the Dark Lord would finally regain his body, and everything would be set right again.

Harry could sense that Voldemort was still there, even though no response came. He likely needed to preserve his energy—he just performed the equivalence of a miracle, after all, casting a spell that complicated and powerful without even having a body of his own. Harry didn’t need to communicate with him—he already realised what was required of him. An unexpected change had occurred in their plan, so now he must adjust accordingly—and a true Slytherin was nothing if not adaptive.

Just like back on the chessboard, he planned out his moves.

Quirrell must take the fall for the entire incident, and thanks to Voldemort, it would be exceptionally easy to ensure that. Hermione Granger was of no concern—she did have quite the imagination, but she trusted Harry enough that whatever he said happened with Quirrell, she would take his word for it. Everything added up. There was just one thing he must take care of. _The Stone_. Until he could leave the school, he needed to hide it somewhere safe, so safe that it wouldn’t be found even if Albus Dumbledore himself came looking.

It took only a moment before the answer came to him. Of course, it was so obvious…and perfectly foolproof. But he could hardly take credit for the idea.

Could Voldemort see the future, or was he just that good at taking precautions? He was almost about to ask the man himself, but decided against it. He had indulged himself to much already tonight.

There was so much… _so much_ he wanted to know, once the time and place were right. Tom Riddle took his first steps here, on the way to conquest, to immortality… Harry could never forget the way he said _I could lead you down this path again_ , as if he’d read his mind, known what he had long craved deep within his soul—to retrace _his_ footsteps, walk in his shoes and look through his eyes until he understood every little thing about him… Perhaps his hunger would not be sated, even then.

Now he knew they shared the same desire. That, and much more. _We are one,_ Voldemort had said. _We are one._

Then let them be. He would be his eyes, his ears, his weapon, the enactor of his will when those who called themselves his servants had pathetically turned tail and fled. The thought filled Harry with a wonderful glee, a newfound confidence, unlike anything he’d felt before. He wondered whether this had to do with Voldemort currently possessing him, whether the power of his essence was affecting his thoughts.

If it was, Harry welcomed it. He had never felt better.

The school was silent as a grave at this time of night. As he made his way to the Room of Requirement, he realised he didn’t need a light source to navigate his way through the dark. Voldemort was guiding him. Each staircase, each twist and turn of the hallways felt so familiar that he could have found his destination with his eyes closed. When he stopped in front of the entrance, he knew exactly what to say in his mind.

_Show me the room where things are hidden._

But that wasn’t all. There was something else. Something on the other side of the door was calling to him, a soothing, indiscernible whisper that quickly faded like a drop of water on parchment. It felt exactly like that moment so long ago, the first time he ever heard the name that changed everything… There was something here in this room. Something belonging to _him_. And he wanted it back, when the time came.

Harry drew his wand and whispered a lighting charm as he entered the room. His knees were so weak he stumbled more than walked, reaching out his free, trembling hand when he found the centre of that irresistible pull—the most beautiful piece of jewellery he had ever seen… A silver crown adorned with a blue sapphire, tarnished by time yet still magnificent, still fitting for a queen. It felt so right, holding it between his fingers, and he would have never let go, if time wasn’t running short—which, he reminded himself, _it was_. He couldn’t free it, not yet. He laid it down where it was, with an involuntary sigh, and reached into his pocket for the Stone.

He would soon come back for them both. For now, he needed to finish his final move.

_Let’s hope Professor Quirrell would be reasonable to a request from his favourite student._

///

Quirrell’s arrest was, of course, a surprise to the whole school. The funny little man who could barely stumble through a sentence without looking like he was about to faint, accused of the theft of important school property _and_ intentionally causing harm to students, including none other than The Boy Who Lived? Despite the faculty’s best effort to prevent it, the whole school was immediately in an uproar. What exactly was stolen was never disclosed, but people knew it was never found on Quirrell’s person, and any attempts so far at extracting its location from the professor—who did not deny committing the theft—had been unsuccessful. In a development more shocking still, when asked, Quirrell admitted to being responsible to the injury of Ron Weasley—all this time, their Defense of the Dark Arts teacher was himself a practitioner of Dark Magic.

Harry and Hermione’s involvement inevitably became public knowledge, since they were missing when Quirrell was caught trying to make his escape, and soon after found unconscious at where the theft occurred. Both were taken into the hospital wing, but Hermione was discharged not long after she woke up, since she suffered no injury except for a few scratches here and there. Harry, on the other hand, had to stay there for the entire following day, and attracted so many visitors Madam Pomfrey had to constantly raise her voice and kick people out. Draco sent Harry a get-well gift—a bottle of pumpkin juice that was enchanted to stay iced—but never came to visit. Harry thought he probably didn’t want to push past swarms of curious students or get yelled at by Madam Pomfrey, and was waiting to talk to Harry once he got out. It was just as well.

It was no surprise to Harry when Dumbledore himself showed up at the hospital wing. In fact, Harry had been waiting for him. _They both had been._

This must be the riskiest move of all—facing one of the most powerful wizards alive with the Dark Lord laying dormant in his soul. But even if Voldemort didn’t speak to Harry directly, Harry could feel he wasn’t alone. Nothing was going to go wrong. The plan had been faultless. Now he must play the part of the rash, well-meaning little hero, and that, he could do. He’d had plenty of practice.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said quietly as the Headmaster sat down at the chair beside his bed. His voice was vulnerable and full of shame, sincere enough to convince himself.

Dumbledore only smiled, kind and reassuring as ever. It irked Harry sometimes, how the man seemed genuinely incapable of harbouring even a shred of malice. His tranquillity was something ancient, unmovable, and made him nearly impossible to read. Harry liked people who were easier to understand. When he spoke to the Headmaster, he could never tell for sure whether his lies had him fooled. It was like throwing pebbles into a lake, and barely causing a ripple.

‘Sorry, my dear boy?’

‘That I…failed… I couldn’t protect the Stone…’ Harry drew an uneven breath, ‘I knew something didn’t feel right about Professor Quirrell, but…for the longest time, I didn’t want to believe it…’

‘It is far easier to assume the worst of people, Harry, than to assume the best. You have done something most could not, or are too afraid to do.’

 _And here comes the cryptic philosophy lesson_. Harry tried a slightly bewildered nod, wincing internally. Assuming the best of people, huh… He could only hope the man lived what he preached.

‘But what if they never find the Stone…? What if it’s lost forever, or worse—fallen into the wrong hands, all because I couldn’t stop him…?’ Harry struggled to sit up, but Dumbledore simply put a hand on his shoulder.

‘By choosing to confront your professor, you and Miss Granger have both done more for the school than it could ever ask for, Harry. The loss of the Stone is not your responsibility, but ours. As we speak, every effort is being made to recover it—but try as we might, there are times when things that are lost are simply not meant to be found… For me, my boy, I am only glad not more was lost last night. You and Miss Granger are safe and sound, and Mr. Weasley, I have been told, should regain consciousness within the next few days—just in time to enjoy his summer holiday…’

Such kindness, such understanding behind the tone of his voice. This was the man Harry had set himself against—the thought of opposing and discrediting him publicly one day was both intimidating and slightly exciting. He could feel Voldemort’s hatred and loathing towards this man, how he longed to see Dumbledore humbled, defeated, humiliated, reduced to nothing by his might. There were stories behind this, no doubt, stories he could ask for when they spoke again…

‘Have they figured out why he was after the Stone, Professor? Why he wanted it so badly?’

To that, Dumbledore’s expression became more solemn. ‘I see that we are of the same mind, Harry. While the Philosopher’s Stone is a powerful artifact, I, too, sense there is more to Professor Quirrell’s actions than meets the eye… To that end, there is something I must tell you. Professor Quirrell will stand trial in a few days, and the Ministry has informed me you may be called to the stand, if you are willing to testify on the events that transpired last night. Remember, it is fully within your right to decline—the decision is no one’s but yours...’

And this was the tricky part, Harry thought. Tying up loose ends.

‘I’ll…think about it, sir. I’m really not sure how much I would be able to tell them… He never mentioned why he was doing all of this. He only told me…’

He swallowed intentionally, to seem like there was something he didn’t quite know how to say. He could feel Dumbledore’s eyes on him, inquisitive, yet not intrusive.

‘He told me that if I gave him the Stone, he would give me back my parents… Like he knew—he knew that was what I saw…when I looked into the mirror. I know it sounds bad, sir, but it took _everything_ in me to say no to him… It scares me, Professor, to think there was a moment when I considered accepting his offer… And… I don’t think I would have been able to say no at all, if it wasn’t for the fact that I know I already have a real home, a real family…here.’

The Headmaster’s eyes softened infinitely, and Harry almost couldn’t stop himself from sneering. Perhaps this man was more predictable than he looked after all.

‘And you always will, my boy,’ Dumbledore said fondly.

Harry lowered his head, sheepish and appreciative.

‘…I know, Professor.’

It wasn’t completely a lie. He _had_ found where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /
> 
> (The fourth chapter ended up being WAY longer than all the previous ones, so I thought it best to post it in two halves. The final chapter will be posted on Tom's birthday, since it's so close already!  
> I can't express how happy it makes me to hear you guys' thoughts and opinions on the story, it really does make my day every time I see one. Some of you have kindly said you'd love to see this fic continued, so that's what I'll happily do! But the story of Harry's first year does finish at chapter 5, and I'll add more chapters once they are actually written.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Warning: This chapter contains depictions of child abuse and brief descriptions of graphic and disturbing imagery.)
> 
> ///

He heard its call again. Sweet, soothing, familiar, luring him back into consciousness. A sound that was soundless, around him, within him, everywhere. He felt himself inclining his head to one side, helplessly intoxicated.

Harry opened his eyes.

He remembered sitting in a carriage with Draco, making idle conversations… He must have drifted off to sleep. But this wasn’t the carriage. He was on a sofa by a lit fireplace, which had two dragons holding up the mantlepiece with their outspread wings. The room was tastefully decorated with what looked like antiques of all kinds, and dimly lit. It took a while for his eyes to adjust.

‘We meet at last, Harry Potter.’

Harry almost jumped from his seat. On the other side of the room, someone emerged from the shadows, in a manner uncannily similar to the figure from the mirror—a tall, dark-haired man with pale skin and fine features, who, despite being dressed in a plain black robe, looked like he could have stepped out of one of those fashion advertisements found at subway stations. His age was impossible to tell, and there was a strange, scarlet gleam behind his pupils that didn’t seem entirely human. He strode toward Harry with a familiar elegance to his gait, coming to a stop once they were only inches apart.

‘Curious. I never expected your strength to affect me this way…’

Harry’s breath hitched.

‘How are you here…?’ he swallowed, ‘And…where is here…?’ _You look different._

‘Your mind, or perhaps mine. It seems there isn’t much of a difference now,’ Voldemort answered pleasantly—he _sounded_ different, too. ‘You have done well, Harry… Exactly as I expected. Now that I am reunited with the Diadem, my strength is sufficiently restored—my body shall be, too, once the ritual is performed. I have been waiting to speak with you again… No doubt you have questions for me as well.’

He sat down beside Harry, whose mind was still reeling. He did have questions, so many that he didn’t know where to start, but they were all overshadowed by staggering elation. This moment… It was like suddenly having his greatest wish fulfilled. He didn’t know how to react.

‘The Diadem…’ he repeated numbly, ‘I’ve read somewhere that there’s a lost relic, once belonging to the founder of Ravenclaw herself… The Lost Diadem, it is called… Do you mean what I took was—?’

‘Yes. Beautiful, is it not? Only a relic with such noble history is worthy of preserving my soul.’

Harry widened his eyes in amazement. ‘How…?’ he asked, ‘All this time, it’s been hidden right there, inside Hogwarts…? When did you leave it there?’

‘When I came back to Hogwarts after graduation, having just returned from my extensive travels around Europe. The Room of Requirement is one of the school’s lost secrets, and I was the only one in my time to find it… Even in the unlikely scenario that someone happened upon it, they would never realise its significance.’

‘You came back to Hogwarts? What for?’

Voldemort smiled. ‘To apply for a job, Harry. I had the intention to become a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. However, Albus Dumbledore, who had accepted the position of Headmaster by the time I paid my visit, turned me down quite resolutely.’

He couldn’t have surprised Harry more if he tried. The Dark Lord himself, wanting to teach at Hogwarts—it was an idea alien and unfathomable, but Harry had enough first-hand experience to know he would have excelled at the job if he got it. Ludicrously, he found himself glad that Tom Riddle’s application was never accepted. The thought of Voldemort instructing a classroom full of students didn’t sit well with him, somehow.

‘Maybe it was for the best,’ he said before he could stop himself. ‘Most students wouldn’t have been worthy of your teaching anyway.’

Voldemort raised an amused eyebrow, and Harry felt thoroughly embarrassed. That had to be the most childish thing to ever come out of his mouth.

‘Perhaps it was,’ Voldemort agreed, after a pause. ‘Even if I had become a teacher, my sights were set on much greater things. Eventually, the position would lose its usefulness. When he rejected my application, Dumbledore pathetically claimed he wished he could force me to “make repayment for my crimes” … He knew that even then, I had already accomplished more than any other before me, and he feared what I would become—which, of course, he was right to do.’

‘Did he know you already created a horcrux…?’

Still smiling, Voldemort did something entirely unexpected. He placed a hand on Harry’s head and threaded his fingers through his hair—as if it was the most natural thing in the world—as he corrected, ‘Not one, Harry. I had far too much ambition to stop at one success.’

It was such a relaxed gesture, familiar and affectionate, something people did out of fondness, to those with whom they were genuinely close. Strange… Harry could have never imagined him doing such a thing, but now that he had done it, it didn’t feel the least bit odd or out of place.

‘You never told me how they are created,’ Harry said, his voice slightly unsteady.

‘Well, Harry…’ Voldemort drawled deliberately, with that look on his face he had whenever there was something he found humorous that Harry wasn’t cognizant of. ‘You _know_ the answer to that already, don’t you?’

Harry closed his eyes. He did know—or perhaps ‘know’ was not the word. It was more of an instinct, a voice whispering from the back of his mind.

‘Murder,’ he said, and looked to meet Voldemort’s stare once more—the scarlet behind those dark eyes had become more pronounced with the glint of satisfaction.

‘Yes. Killing rips the soul apart, as it is a violation against nature… More specifically, taking the life of another of your kind.’

Something inside Harry stirred.

A life for a life… The more horcruxes one created, the more secured their immortality became. This was magic of the darkest kind, sealed away and buried by those who deemed it monstrous, horrific, but it had found its way back, rediscovered by the greatest wizard alive…

Harry Potter had probably thought about death far more than most children of his age. It was a morbid thing, really, but whenever the Dursleys locked him in his cupboard and starved him for messing up a chore, the thought of death came to him in those long, agonising hours spent all by himself in the darkness, tormented by hunger and thirst. He wondered if he would die, if he continued to live like this—and if the Dursleys would even care, if he did. He had imagined himself lying there, eyes blank and lifeless, spiders crawling into his ears and half-open lips, making themselves at home. It chilled him to the bone, consumed him with an overwhelming dread incomparable with anything he’d ever known. _I can’t die like this. I won’t._

So he survived. He survived, and had been rewarded for it. He had found his destiny, a way to ensure his fear would never come true, in all eternity.

‘Would any human life suffice?’ he asked in an unusually quiet voice. ‘Even…a muggle’s?’

Voldemort had never looked more pleased.

‘Yes,’ he said, running his fingers through Harry’s hair again. ‘Anyone.’

 _Then this could be it_ , Harry thought. _The summit_. He could stay here, with the only person who truly wanted him, understood him, saw him for his potential and embraced it. Too good to be true, and yet it was.

Or, he could make it.

‘Do you think three would be a good start?’

Voldemort gave a chuckle, a sound surprisingly gentle. ‘I know what you have in mind,’ he said, ‘and do not ever think I disapprove. But we have established that Dumbledore keeps a close watch on your life—if you go through with it, neither your allegiance nor our connection will remain a secret to him, even if you can skilfully deceive the public.’

He was right, as always, but this was the one time Harry wished he wasn’t. He let out a sigh of sheer frustration.

‘I’ll have to go back,’ he said flatly, ‘to that place I’m expected to call home. Let’s hope I have enough self-control to not make them choke to death on their own blood, knowing I have the power to…’

The other man’s intensely serious expression stopped him from continuing. With a firm hand, he held Harry’s chin up and looked intently into his eyes. ‘I did not create my first horcrux until I was sixteen, Harry. And I understand all too well what it is like to live with people you loath. They will pay for all they’ve done, one day—you will make them. But you will not be rash, and you will not be foolish.’

‘I won’t,’ Harry promised softly.

Voldemort was right. He could wait. He had endured it for eleven years—what was a few more? The Dursleys were of no threat to him, not anymore. It was only a matter of time.

‘Do not be concerned. Suffering creates greatness, but yours has come to an end. I will let no harm come to you. When I say we are one, I do not merely mean it in a figurative sense—you will have my protection, regardless of where you are.’

Harry blinked. ‘What do you mean…?’

‘Killing splits the soul, sometimes unbeknownst to its owner…’ Voldemort’s finger brushed across his forehead, lingering briefly at the scar. ‘When I cast my curse on you that night, Harry, I unknowingly left a piece of my soul inside you. It has been…awakened, because of our connection. Its power is yours to command, if you wish it.’

 _A piece of Voldemort’s soul, inside him_. Harry understood the words, but for a long moment, none of their meaning truly registered. Then he remembered, back in front of the mirror, how Voldemort cryptically said _our souls are already joined_ …

He had more than just a scar and his brother wand. He was a horcrux. _His_ , horcrux. All this time, the Dark Lord’s soul lived inside of him. What did that mean? Brotherhood, companionship, family—there was no bond on earth that could even compare to what they shared. Nothing. This was something different, something only the two of them could ever truly understand.

‘Does that mean…’ Harry began, floundering wildly, ‘Is this why we are so… _similar_? I became who I am, because of your soul…’

‘Yes, I once thought so…’ Voldemort said contemplatively, sounding in that moment just like a professor explaining an interesting theory to his favourite student, ‘but it seems, Harry, that the answer is no. Now that I reside within your mind, I’ve had the opportunity to examine this piece of my soul up close, and while it is certain it has affected you subtly in a multitude of ways, its influence on the development of your personality should be…minimal.’

‘But…that means…’

‘That you’ve become who you are all by yourself? It would seem so. Call it fate, or some deity’s twisted sense of humour… These likenesses between us are not caused by the literal connection of our souls.’

 _If it really was the work of some mischievous god, he has my everlasting gratitude,_ Harry thought. _Suffering creates greatness_ , Voldemort said… Then he was right, in thinking Tom Riddle’s lust for power didn’t arise from nothing…and their similarities extended even further, beyond what he already knew.

‘I’m guessing…that a horcrux is not immortal like its creator…?’

‘Indeed not. Which is why I decided to preserve my soul in seven parts… A horcrux is protected by the soul within it, but it can still be destroyed—nearly impossible, yes, but not improbable.’

Harry smiled to himself, struck by the irony of it all. The magical world hailed him as their saviour—little did they know, Lord Voldemort would never be destroyed, as long as he drew breath…

‘Teach me how it’s done,’ he said. ‘You said you would.’

‘Do you truly believe you are ready? Many possess the desire to kill, Harry, but few are truly capable of the act…’

‘Oh, come on. I’m starting to think you just don’t want me to break your record.’

He almost expected Voldemort to take offense, but the man only laughed. It was odd, hearing him laugh in a way that was neither crazed nor contemptuous. He drew Harry closer with one hand, studying him with those chillingly bright eyes, as if trying to assess whether he was as confident as he appeared. Harry readily held his stare.

‘Do not think,’ Voldemort said slowly, ‘that you can imagine how creating a horcrux will affect you, simply because you have practiced Dark Magic. The splitting of your soul is an experience that will change you, fundamentally, and for good. You won’t think and feel the same way you do now—once it is done, you won’t even be completely human. Immortality is a wish you cannot take back. Even if you reabsorb the horcrux, as I did the Diadem, it won’t be quite the same. It can _never_ be the same again, for the rest of eternity—think about that, Harry, and tell me you still think you’re ready.’

Harry was silent.

It sounded frightening—of course it did. He believed Voldemort when he said Harry couldn’t possibly predict what it would feel like. But—

‘…Did you know?’ he asked. ‘When you first did it… When you were sixteen?’

For the briefest moment, Voldemort seemed taken aback. It was decades ago, after all—for him, that must feel like lifetimes away.

‘I didn’t,’ he said at last, ‘and I didn’t try to. I knew I was going to preserve my soul permanently, no matter at what cost. Any consequences were insignificant, compared to what would be achieved.’

He forfeited his humanity, when he was still a teenager, Harry thought. He desired power and security so strongly that he was willing to risk anything, pay any price the ancient magic demanded. Harry would have asked _why_ , if he didn’t already know.

Because splitting your soul was a death in itself, a _rebirth_. Riddle knew once he shed his skin, he would never have to look back again. Of course it would be an easy decision…when there was nothing behind him that he missed.

‘I’m ready,’ Harry said, without any stubbornness or heat to his voice. He uttered the words calmly, as the simple statement that it was. ‘I trust myself, and I trust you. I want to protect the part of your soul inside me. I want to feel as you feel. There’s nothing…no one, that matters to me more.’

Voldemort looked at him, his charming features entirely inscrutable. Harry knew he had understood.

After a tense silence, Harry heard a sigh so faint it was almost inaudible—or perhaps it was a chuckle. Then, slowly and gently, a hand removed his glasses and obscured his vision, cold fingertips pressing softly against his temples, the sensation both soothing and perplexing.

 _‘This is how much you stand to lose,’_ came his whisper. _‘Your entire world, plunged into eternal darkness.’_

Harry understood it just like English…except it somehow wasn’t the language he heard. It was a strange hissing, familiar and hypnotising, uttered with Voldemort’s usual grace.

 _Parseltongue_.

Harry couldn’t describe how awestruck he was when he read there was a language only the Dark Lord spoke, an ability bestowed to him by the blood of Salazar Slytherin, his noble ancestor. But he wasn’t the only speaker… Of course. Harry never would have thought of it before, but now—now he knew their souls existed as one…

 _‘Then so be it,’_ Harry replied, smiling. He wasn’t confused, or afraid.

For once in his life, he was truly happy.

///

Dinner was a quiet affair that evening.

Harry had made a bet with himself on when the Dursleys would stop being weird about having to tolerate Harry sitting together with them at their meals, and so far, ‘never’ seemed safe enough. It was honestly quite amusing how far Harry could push them, once they learned he could unleash his ‘freakishness’ on them even without a wand. He didn’t enjoy eating at their table for the least bit, but he _did_ enjoy the looks on their faces as he took his time with his food, occasionally switching the channel on their TV and making a few comments about how Aunt Petunia’s cooking really kept getting better.

He went up to his bedroom—yes, _bedroom_ now—and did a bit of reading, almost finishing the chapter before he heard the distant roaring of thunder, and looked outside to see the sky heavy with dark clouds. Hedwig hadn’t returned yet, so he couldn’t shut the window. He only hoped the poor thing wouldn’t get caught in the downpour—and that the important message she was to bring back was spelled to be waterproof.

Putting the book aside, he sat down on his bed, letting his mind idle until something on the bedstand caught his eye. An old photo album.

It felt strange, bringing it all the way back from Hogwarts and leaving it there to collect dust for a whole month, but ever since he received the gift from the half-giant, he kept finding excuses to not open it. Hagrid must have found it odd, too—though he was too kind to say it—that Harry didn’t open the album the moment it was in his hands, when it contained images of the family he had been missing his whole life.

Harry didn’t know why, himself. He didn’t look, but he didn’t get rid of it either. Now that he held it within his hands, he truly wondered why. It weighed so little, a small, insignificant thing that could be dealt with however he pleased…What was stopping him, really?

The sky was beginning to darken some more. Still no Hedwig.

 _This is silly_ , Harry told himself. If he hadn’t thrown the thing away, it meant some part of him must still be curious about what was inside. Enough going round in circles. Whatever was to be done about it, he should do it right here, right now…because soon, everything was about to change, and not just for him.

His forefinger traced over his scar as his thoughts swirled—a small habit he couldn’t tell when he had slipped into. Yes, he should just take a look inside. Was it guilt that prevented him from doing so? Even more reason to deal with it now, if that was the case. He needed to face this. _He_ would want him to, as well, before he was transformed for good. To show he really was ready to leave everything behind, die and be remade…

Carefully, he laid the photo album down on the floor, and flipped it open.

A beautiful woman with bright red hair and green eyes just like his smiled at him from the first page, a dark-haired man with glasses beaming by her side. The man was holding a baby gently in his arms, fondly kissing the back of its head as the photo was captured, looking like there was nothing in the entire world that could make him happier than he was in that moment. They both looked so young, so contented that it was impossible to tell the shadows of war had ever touched them…or to imagine it ever would.

 _They loved me,_ Harry thought. They loved me.

He knew it to be true. It was right there in front of him, on their bright, smiling faces. So why did it sound so hollow? Why was a statement that was supposed to be brimming with emotions so empty and weightless, no matter how long he waited for its significance to sink in?

He’d told himself that he barely remembered them, that he couldn’t miss someone he’d never had the chance to know. But he could still know them, if he wanted. People who were their friends, their teachers… No doubt so many would gladly tell Harry their stories if he asked.

…And then what?

Would Harry spend his life trying to honour their memories, to become someone that would have made them proud? It was what a selfless son would do, or…maybe just what any son _should_ want to do. But Harry wasn’t a selfless person. He probably wasn’t very normal, either. After all, would people usually agree to splitting their souls in two?

Harry never had the luxury to live in dreams. He couldn’t, when his life was all about dodging Aunt Petunia’s frying pan, Uncle Vernon’s waving fists and Dudley’s capricious cruelty. Every morning, he woke up with one goal and one goal alone in mind: to survive another day. It should be to no one’s surprise that he grew to become someone who could only see and care about what was in front of him. If he had a more active imagination, maybe he could see James and Lily Potter watching him from above, and how utterly horrified and heartbroken they would be to see him falling so far, plotting to take another’s life, allowing his own soul to be ripped apart.

But the reality was that Harry looked long and hard at the photo in front of him, and saw just that—a photo.

‘…I’m sorry,’ he muttered, for the simple reason that it felt like the decent thing to say.

It didn’t feel right to remain silent, in this moment of closure—it was called _saying_ _goodbye_ for a reason.

The Dark Lord’s soul responded to his will, lifting the album into the air. A sudden gust of wind blew the window wide open, carrying the fresh scent of a brewing storm, flipping the pages rapidly. Moving images flashed before Harry’s eyes, their meanings forever lost as the edges curled and darkened, a bright, scarlet flame slowly spreading, consuming it all. He reached out a hand, letting the ashes touch his fingers before they were scattered in the wind.

Just then, as he closed his eyes, he felt the first drop of rain land on his forehead. He stood there, unmoving, letting himself savour the feeling.

It wasn’t long before he heard the familiar sound of Hedwig flapping her wings. She had brought back the reply safely, and was obviously mad that he had sent her out in this weather. He couldn’t help smiling as he tried to appease her, which promptly earned him a peck on the finger.

‘Ouch. Fair enough,’ he winced slightly, still smiling, as he opened the wax-sealed envelope to find a letter in Draco’s neat, unmistakable handwriting.

**_Dear Harry,_ **

**_I am so glad you want to spend the rest of the summer with us. Mother and father both said you will always be more than welcome here. Also, father wanted me to tell you “everything’s been arranged” … Are you planning some kind of surprise behind my back? When did you have the chance to get so close with him, anyway? You’ll have to spill it once you’re here. In any case, I’m sure the Malfoy Manor will blow you away. There is something really cool I want to show you—I got it over the holiday, but since you’re keeping a secret, I think I’m going to keep one myself, at least for now._ **

**_Yours,_ **

**_Draco_ **

Harry refolded the letter and placed it back into the envelope, leisurely bringing his finger across the Malfoy family crest at the seal. The finest stationary—ostentatious as ever… For once, it seemed fitting.

All of it would have to be destroyed, of course, leaving not the slightest trace behind. But Harry allowed himself to hold on to it, for just a little longer—the precious, tangible proof that his summer was looking up at last.


End file.
